


The Night We Met

by aforallyyyyyyx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Eventual Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, F/M, Good Draco Malfoy, Gryffindor Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts First Year, M/M, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-18 06:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 56,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13094601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aforallyyyyyyx/pseuds/aforallyyyyyyx
Summary: "I am searching for a trail to follow, again.Take me back to the night we met."Draco Malfoy tried to put the war behind him. But a run-in with the allegedly dead Harry James Potter has Draco stuffed back in time to 1991 in his eleven year old body. "Blessed" with this opportunity, Draco takes it upon himself to rewrite a familiar seven years of history, and tries not to be a dick about it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, another time-travel fix-it? Sue me. I do not own the Harry Potter series, so you wouldn't be getting much, I'm afraid.

Draco could hear nothing but crunch of his leather boots on the early winter track leading to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The sound would have been relatively pleasant to hear, for Draco rather liked winter, but as he stared at the castle, all his eyes did were look up, not down.

There was still a lot of rebuilding to be done. Hogwarts in its recent blight had been hit hard by the final battle against the Dark Lord in May. It was December, now. For the first few months, Draco had barely been able to stomach the sight of the crumbled castle: he could hardly stomach the thought that more than fifty had died, or were murdered, or had fallen, or had been blown up, or...

Had given themselves to Voldemort.

Draco swallowed a mouthful of cool air, his ribs inflating with ice. His eyes drifted to the Forbidden Forest, untouched, and covered with clouds dumping snow on the trees. On former Headmaster Dumbledore’s trees.

He was alone in the outdoors, but as Draco passed a particular spot in the opening of the trees, his body and soul felt heavy. He couldn’t explain it. It was like the spirits of the dead were holding a meeting, and he was an intruder.

Draco pushed past the weight hanging in the air, taking a few more gulps of raw ice. His pale skin was pink, blushed with his blood attempting to circulate his body. He tried warming charms, but those only worked for a short time. And Draco had been out here since the morning, wondering if the final battle was worth the price of those hundreds of souls.

At the halfway point between that day and the final battle, Draco had a shock, in the sense that he could actually think for himself, finally. Lucius Malfoy, his father, had been sent to Azkaban for good, this time. Draco thought it wise of his father to finally stop pleading _Imperius_ and give up. Besides, the evidence had been stacked against him.

Draco hadn’t been safe from the laws of the Ministry of Magic himself. In fact, there had been a time where Draco was certain he’d end up in a cell adjacent to his mother and father for his following of the Dark Lord and the taking of his Mark.

But surprisingly, it took a joint success between Minerva McGonagall, the new Headmistress of Hogwarts, and one of Draco’s former school nemeses, Hermione Granger, to clear his name.

The Mudblood Granger. _Oh, if Potter could see me now,_ thought Draco, as he kicked up a patch of snow and crunched some more frost. Hermione Granger had testified for him at the DMLE trial, where he remembered being bolted to the chair, white as a sheet. His freedom had been up to _Granger._

Draco took another breath of fresh, biting air. It took serious brain work to figure out how it had happened. In the Battle of Hogwarts, it had been Granger, Weasel, and Potter who had saved _Draco’s_ life, not the other way around. But Granger had taken a stand and made a worthy case.

“Draco Malfoy played a pivotal role in the downfall of Voldemort,” Hermione Granger announced boldly, once more in his memory.

Yes. _Draco Malfoy played a pivotal role in the downfall of Voldemort._ That was her thesis. But Draco had known none of it. The defense consisted of a presentation, reporting the cause of the Dark Lord’s downfall, when Harry Potter utilized a relic belonging to a group of three, the Deathly Hallows: The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Cloak of Invisibility. Potter had inevitably disarmed the Dark Lord with _Expelliarmus,_ catching the wand of legend, often referred to as the Death Stick. And it was then that Voldemort fell, after all had been done. But why did the Dark Lord fall? It hadn’t been just because of Potter’s prowess.

What Draco got out of Granger’s explanation truly shocked him, his chest tightening and his throat closing up because of it. Because the Elder Wand had once belonged to Albus Dumbledore, and Draco, under Severus Snape’s orders, had disarmed him on top of the Astronomy Tower.

“But Albus Dumbledore was murdered under his own orders,” carried on Granger in Draco’s memory, “By Severus Snape. He ordered Professor Snape to murder him after a year’s time, when he would die anyway, because of a curse placed on him by Voldemort. But Albus Dumbledore’s death would only prove Professor Snape’s allegiance to the Dark Lord…”

Draco blinked, passing yet another area on the edge of the forest, where he could not breathe. The air was heavy, here. He took a bigger gulp of ice as he surveyed his surroundings. McGonagall had sent him away to sleep, but Draco had taken a walk instead. And Draco was a little glad that he had. He yawned, but it was okay. He needed the quiet.

It was in the silence that Draco finally thought about Harry Potter’s death. The air was heaviest here, perhaps it was his spirit, lingering? _Codswallop_ , snorted Draco. _No way._ But the air was trifling. His emotions were heightened, and Draco knew how it felt when an entity was nearby. He lived in close proximity to many in his years at Hogwarts, and even today, the ghosts of the castle stayed there.

“Is that you, Bloody Baron?” Draco said aloud, suddenly, his lips stretching painfully in the cold. “Peeves?”

Peeves the Poltergeist was invisible. And if he wanted to make himself known, he would. It was not in his nature, and for that, Draco dismissed him.

He plodded on through his walk. He would not be returning to the castle for an hour, where he would have to lie and say he slept. Draco had trouble sleeping ever since early May.

It was the kind of thing that could ruin a person: The Battle of Hogwarts. For some time, Draco’s mind harbored nightmares that not even a dreamless sleep potion could truly cure. And he was not the only one.

But Draco had so many nightmares. Day-mares, too. His mind was in a constant flux of _Room of Requirement, Room of Requirement, Astronomy Tower, Malfoy Manor, Malfoy Manor, Dumbledore, Dumbledore, Voldemort, Voldemort, Harry Potter, Harry Potter…_

He would give anything for someone to just take them away. He would give a lot of his life away, if someone could stop his brain from reliving the night Dumbledore was murdered by Snape on the Astronomy Tower, when Draco failed. Who cares if he was selfish, not thinking that Potter and a whole lot of other people were dead? He would rather be dead, at this moment, than exhausted and not able to sleep, for fear of the Dark Lord coming back. The previous night, he had relived the torture session that followed his failure, from sixth year. Each night, Draco awoke with his spine tingling from his own dreamt version of the Cruciatus Curse. He awoke in tears, every night.

And Draco had no one in England to wipe the tears away. He was alone, for now. The wizarding public had certainly a lot to say about Draco himself, even laying claims that he had blackmailed Granger somehow to stand by him. But beyond the trial, and her loyalty to the truth, not even Granger could offer friendship. No one did.

His former Slytherin friends all ended up in Azkaban, at least, the ones he was close to in school. Goyle, for the use of Fiendfyre, an illegal curse, and his Dark Mark. Nott, for his Dark Mark and sworn allegiance to Voldemort, even during the trial. Zabini. And Crabbe, of course, was dead.

The only person in his immediate friend circle to escape trial was Pansy Parkinson, who never took the mark, but stood by her father, who was thrown into Azkaban. Draco had stopped talking to her long before seventh year.

But his mother and father were also in Azkaban. Lost and dead to him. His father, Draco didn’t mind having locked up, but it was his mother’s sentence that would haunt him the most. Narcissa Malfoy, his mother, was his only friend, once upon a time. Back when Draco had been a lonely first or second year, with two goons for company and when the Saviour of the Wizarding World had rejected his friendship.

For a moment, Draco thought back on that day in first year. If he had been sorted into a different house than the one Potter was told was bad, would he have accepted his friendship? Or was it Draco’s preteen, dickish personality? Either way, he wondered what it would have been like. He didn’t expect Potter to see through the Hogwarts Houses, not that early in his life, so perhaps it had been Draco’s fault? Draco had been a bit of a dick, even he had to admit. It was all a front: just his own loneliness causing him to constantly bicker and bite back at those that didn’t understand him. Draco was much, much older now, at age 18, he had begun to suspect that he and Potter’s misunderstandings were all his fault.

And it wasn’t like Potter was _alive_ , now, to hear his apology. He would have to wait until his soul was scorched in hell before he could talk to the bloke again. Even though it was just a figure of speech, Draco snorted. His own soul in muggle hell. That would be the most ironic punishment.

For Draco on that very long walk, it was all about seeing the bigger picture. He was trying to get his image reestablished in the eyes of the Light, volunteering to help the Gryffindorks in rebuilding the castle, avoiding the limited number of students that returned, for they all stared, in Draco’s experience. But he was trying. And now, he was going through his past, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong.

That time he had met Potter on the train. Who was he sitting with? It had to have been Weasel. But had Granger been there, too? What exactly had he said that made Potter hate him so much, immediately?

His dull memories of first-year were all filled with petty taunts and Potter’s big adventure. And Slytherin’s loss of the House Cup that year.

Draco’s stroll was suddenly interrupted by a force slamming into his front, slowing him down and pushing him into a tree. His senses went into overdrive immediately, and as he struggled to pull out his wand from his coat pocket, long, messy black hair invaded his view.

It was the dead Harry fucking Potter. But his hair was long, unkempt, and his face was dirty, his eyes intense, like an animal. His clothing was ripped and he had no wand that held Draco down, rather brute force that Draco could not counter.

 _What the hell is he doing here?_ After Draco’s panic, his immediate thoughts were, _Actually, never mind what he’s doing here. He’s dead. Potter’s supposed to be dead. Am I getting attacked by an Inferi? A fucking zombie? You have got to be bloody kidding me._

He tried to form words. He made eye contact with the crazed Potter man and simply said, “Let go. You’re hurting me,” in a very, very frightened whine.

Potter’s hands were not around Draco’s neck. He didn’t seem to be choking him. Instead, Potter was simply holding him there, against the tree, his hands digging into Draco’s collarbones.

Draco saw Potter hesitate for a small moment. His expression changed, like he was deliberating something. And then, he spoke, in an incredibly cracking voice, “Will you promise me not to run?”

Draco was in shock. Here Potter was, in all his zombified glory, and he considers letting him go? He thought Inferi weren’t supposed to talk.

“Erm, yeah?” Draco said, unsure, and as soon as he said that, Potter released him. “What the actual bloody-”

“I know you’re wondering why I’m out here,” said Potter quickly, “And I don’t want you to ask questions. Not yet.”

“But-”

“Ah.” Potter put a finger to his own lips and said, “See that rune circle over there, Malfoy?”

Draco looked, but he couldn’t find what the hell Potter was on about. Everything was happening so quick, it was like he wasn’t allowed to think. It took five seconds of silence before he could spot it, in the opening of the trees. It was cloaked in darkness.

“Now, Hermione and I spent a lot of time on these runes, Malfoy, and I will not have you walking on the edge of the forest and messing them all up. See the rune circle you just stepped in, over there?”

Draco looked backwards. As a matter of fact, buried in the frost he had stepped in, was a rune circle capable of a very powerful spell. But Draco couldn’t dwell on that, now. There was the matter that Potter was _alive,_ clearly at his wits’ end, and dressed exactly as he was in that May, but looking more like Sirius Black when he escaped from Azkaban that one time. It was not pretty.

“And what have supposedly I ruined, Potter?” Draco managed to get the words out of his mouth before he started to realize that it was probably his own wits that were going. His own mind. That had to be it. _Potter is dead._

And Potter’s eyes darkened. Draco suddenly began to feel very, very scared.

“You just ruined the back-up plan, Malfoy.”

And then, Draco experienced a type of vertigo like no other as up became down, right became left, and dark became light.

* * *

Draco Malfoy awoke with a start in his bed at Malfoy Manor, thinking back on that day he thought he met a dead, older, Inferi-version of Harry Potter on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. There was no possible way that had been real. It had obviously been a dream.

As he sat up in his bed, in his head, everything suddenly felt _wrong_. Draco had awoken with a migraine so terrible it made him want to lay down and sleep forever. He winced, a cry bubbling up in his throat, knowing that when he had these, (for he had them often when he was younger) he would call for a house elf or his mother and they would get them sorted out with a simple headache potion. But the house elves and his mother were not here.

Which is why he cried out in shock when one materialized in his bedroom. “The young master is be crying?” It questioned in a warbling, high voice, “Does Master Draco be wanting his breakfast? A hot morning bath?”

The house elf’s tennis ball eyes were bulging with concern as tears fell from Draco’s. “What is the young master be wanting?”

Draco snapped to attention, the pain from his migraine never waning. “Just a headache potion, Dobby.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the house elf snapped his fingers, and was gone.

Draco then leaned over to vomit.

* * *

“Does the boy need St. Mungo’s?” Lucius Malfoy said, from the big chair in his study. He was going over many Ministry documents, and gave an air that said precisely, ‘I don’t want you here, right now.’

“No. Draco will certainly be alright,” Narcissa replied to her husband, “One of the house elves found him in the early morning with a high fever and complaining of a headache. I will spare you from some of the more graphic details.”

“Yes, yes, very well,” said Lucius, without looking up. “As long as he does not need coddling from you, Narcissa. He will be leaving for Hogwarts, very soon. He will need to learn to get by on his own.”

Narcissa had a mask, but on the inside, she was slightly offended. Her son was only just eleven! Of course he would need coddling!

“Yes, Lucius,” replied Narcissa, instead. “I will leave him to the elves. I have told them precisely the potions to administer.”

* * *

Back in Draco’s room, he could hardly believe what he was seeing. Everything seemed like a fever dream. (And a fever dream, it probably was. Dobby had said he was running on 39 degrees Celsius.)

Dobby was there. The old elf that his father had given clothes to back in his second year for helping Harry Potter out all year. Draco hadn’t seen or heard from Dobby after that, except for when he dropped a chandelier on Bellatrix at Malfoy Manor in an attempt to save Potter, Loony Lovegood, Ollivander, the Weasel, and Granger from his father’s cellar as they awaited the Dark Lord. Voldemort hadn’t been happy, then, either.

His heart rate elevated further as Draco thought of that day. He was breathless, perhaps because of the fever, but also because he had a calendar in his room that was stuck on _29 th July, 1991_.

And if Dobby had been in his room, knowing he had died, for Granger told him so, then the calendar gave him even more proof and suspicion than he really needed.

Of course, as Draco got up to enter his bath, swaying, he saw his reflection in the mirror. A flushed and weak eleven-year-old child stared back at him, and if that wasn’t already enough, Draco was forced to run to the toilet again rather than enter the bath.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco’s fever eventually cleared up, and he could think more clearly. First of all, he was at Malfoy Manor, in his childhood bedroom. Second of all, he was eleven years old, unless someone decided to play an elaborate prank on him and slip him a de-aging potion somehow. That would make the calendar conundrum easier to explain. But even though Draco was no Ravenclaw, he still knew that Dobby being there was the outlier in this set of answers.

Like Potter, Dobby didn’t die?

He was wearing himself thin with answers. It was now the 30th of July, and as if that made things any worse, Draco had locked himself in his room, refusing to eat the meals the house elves supplied, wondering who in the bloody hell would play this kind of sick joke.

Harry Potter was at the top of his list. After all, it had been that same person Draco had been faced with before everything got confusing. Like his true eleven-year-old self, Draco was already blaming Harry bloody Potter for everything. Brilliant.

Draco actually knew it wasn’t wise to blame Potter, for that was what got him into all his troubles at school in the first place. In fact, he rather blamed his father for his entire lifestyle, existence, and worse of all, his Dark Mark.

And with that thought, Draco was struck with a hope, a hope so large and an emotion that filled him up. His left arm was a blank canvas. The Dark Mark was gone! Draco knew that removing the Dark Mark was impossible, so impossible, that when a sixteen-year-old, frightened kid had tried before, it left him with scarring around the- but yes! His Dark Mark was gone!

That was the moment that Draco finally begun to believe that he had travelled back in time. The thought was so foreign to him- what had Potter _done?_ But regardless of how it happened, Draco got a second chance! A chance to not be a Death Eater, to not take the mark, to not be tortured-

But what would he have to do this time, to avoid that happening? Get disowned? A likely event.

Draco looked back nervously at his old calendar. His old eleven-year-old self probably marked it with thick ink in anticipation for the first day of Hogwarts. And Draco begun to seriously consider the idea. If this was even real, he could escape taking the mark, somehow.

If Draco were to be disowned by his father, would that mean it would save him from taking the Dark Mark? He nodded his head: most certainly, as long as he was protected from the Dark Lord himself when he came calling.

And... that meant no being sorted into Slytherin House at Hogwarts. Albus Dumbledore would never trust him enough as a Slytherin. It had been all about the blatant and preposterous favoritism toward the Gryffindors for _him_ …

The Gryffindors. It would probably take a few days for Lucius to find out and then, that would be it. Draco could purposely put himself in Gryffindor, but then, he would have to be a _Gryffindor_. He would be forced to sleep in the same room as Potty and the Weasel, for seven whole years! That was only if Draco himself managed to find out how to defeat the Dark Lord before it came to the final battle, where countless lives were lost.

And facing Voldemort by himself scared Draco shitless. His face was flushing and his skin was crawling even thinking about it. Maybe he could go to Durmstrang, instead, and stay out of the action entirely. Or America. Hell, even Romania or Salem sounded more appealing than being a Gryffindor and _acting_ like a Gryffindor. With his cohorts, Potty and the Weasel. And Granger. _Mudblood Granger!_

But it was probably the only idea Draco had that would successfully get him away from his father, and under the protection of Albus Dumbledore. Maybe Ravenclaw, but there was probably no way Lucius would ever disown him for that, only. Hufflepuff, but he’d just be utterly disappointed. Maybe never speak to him again. Lucius might disown him for being sorted into Hufflepuff, but Draco preferred Gryffindor. Those Hufflepuff badgers were even more annoying than the lions- Justin Finch-Fletchly, Bones, ugh! If Draco all of a sudden decided to go off into the sunset with Albus Dumbledore and McGonagall to frolic with the mudbloods, then that would really make Lucius angry. Probably.

Unless the hat saw right through him, and realised Draco wanted to be in Gryffindor because it would help him get away from his father. The whole plan was totally Slytherin: it was all to save Draco’s hide, in the end. But whatever. Draco was sure he could convince the hat for _something_. As a last resort, Ravenclaw. Second, Hufflepuff. But he would try to get into Gryffindor.

Maybe he could find out why Potter refused him so much in the beginning; was it his Slytherin sorting, or the fact that Draco had been a right git? Probably because Draco had been a git. Oh well. At least he was more mature now, it gave him leverage over the Gryffindorks. If they gave him flack about his ancient Slytherin family, then Draco could just tell them to shove off.

There was also the question of where Draco would live, upon getting disowned. He would have no titles. No money. No trust vault, unless he drained it and offloaded it somewhere where Lucius couldn’t find it. That would be stealing, which would piss Lucius off.

All Draco had to do was find a way out of Lucius. It was just Lucius, and then he would be home free to do whatever the bloody hell he wanted. Move to America. Start a new life. Who gives a bloody damn?

He had to admit he had some sort of guilt complex. If Draco just up and left, he wouldn’t change anything in the timeline, causing most of the events to remain the same. All those people would still die in the Battle of Hogwarts. Snape. Crabbe. The other Weasley twin. The bloody werewolf, Professor Lupin. Draco may not have liked his classes, but he certainly knew that he didn’t have to die.

No one had to die. His godfather, Severus Snape, didn’t have to die. Knowing that they were alive now, in 1991, (the bloody hell?) heightened Draco’s emotions even more. None of them had to die. And Draco had an opportunity to make it right.

And this time, he would probably have to do it as a bloody Gryffindor.

* * *

 

Draco first saw his mother the next day, after she supposedly left him alone when he was sick. He didn’t remember getting sick before first-year, but it was most likely his mind adjusting to the onslaught of new memories and his adult brain adjusting to being 1.39 metres tall again. And Merlin, that was _short_. Compared to being 1.79 metres tall before. Draco had been bloody scrawny, too. He discovered this while changing. What had he been when he was eleven, anyway? 5 and a half stone?

The first time he saw Narcissa, no longer bound in shackles, with no worry lines and no empty expression in her eyes, absent, Draco ran forward and _hugged_ her.

Drinking in his mother’s embrace like a starved and dehydrated child, Draco held on to Narcissa for as long as he could. He had doubts about forcing himself to be sorted into Gryffindor at Hogwarts, and he would rather not lose his mother again. Maybe she would stand with him instead of Lucius?

…No. That was impossible. Narcissa would stand by her husband, always.

“Draco?” Narcissa asked her son, breaking the hug and taking his forearms, “Are you alright, sweetheart?”

Draco started to bite his lip. And this was him, hoping. An immature well of emotions were bubbling over, quite like when he had woken up for the first time. His face started to feel hot, his chest pricking. His throat felt like there was something stuck in it.

Draco cried.

“Oh, dragon,” Narcissa cooed, “What happened? Does your head still hurt? Do you need another potion?”

Draco shook his head, wiping his eyes. His immediate thought was that this was unbecoming of an heir to a lord- _oh, fuck it!_ Draco would cry and he would do it bloody _loudly_. Narcissa’s eyes were moving around the corridor, wondering about Lucius’ location and if he would be able to hear the impending tantrum.

“Draco?” Narcissa frowned with concern. Draco didn’t remember if he’d ever cried in front of his mother, at least, past the age of five. That time when Lucius got his cane, and started whooping him if he acted improper.

“I had a nightmare, mummy!” cried Draco as an excuse, his face a hot mess. He had tried to remember what eleven year olds sounded like, and guessed completely wrong. Narcissa’s second frown led him to believe that he had guessed too young. Draco actually had stopped calling Narcissa ‘mummy’ or even ‘mum’ at the age of seven. “It was about you!”

Draco spotted Narcissa subtlety raise her wand behind her back to cast a silencing charm. Good idea, for Draco didn’t fancy himself getting caned for the outburst.

“What was it about me, prince?” Narcissa moved him into his bedroom, “What has got you into such a state?”

Now, Draco had to make up his own nightmare. He had been having them, but they were all about the Room of Requirement, fiendfyre, and Crabbe’s death, last night. Would he play realistic with this, or maybe try to slip in a warning or two? He could pretend to be a Seer. But Draco soon thought that idea a bad one, since Lucius would be rather interested in that ability.

“Hm hm,” Draco took shallow breaths, “I dreamed that I was sorted into… Hufflepuff, mother, and that you didn’t want to be my mum anymore!” A valid fear for an eleven-year-old boy. He had nearly said Gryffindor, but he didn’t want to reveal his plans too early. It also put Narcissa into a position.

“A-and then I got a Howler from father that said Hufflepuffs are lowly, a-and unworthy, and that I had been thrown out! And then Dumbledore and Uncle Sev threw all the Hufflepuffs out of Hogwarts!” Now, Draco was just embellishing the lie. A part of him was amused at his thought about all the Hufflepuffs being tossed. Draco painted a second frown on his face to cover it up.

“Hufflepuffs are known to be friendly, not unworthy,” said Narcissa at once, “And I’m sure Albus Dumbledore and your Uncle Severus would never do that in real life.”

“B-but what if they did?” Draco wailed, secretly enjoying it even more, “A-and what if I get sorted into Hufflepuff? You won’t love m-me anymore!”

He was enjoying putting Narcissa in this position. He eventually wanted her to promise that she would still love him, but not enough that she would stop him from being disowned. In fact, if disownment was enough to cause a separation of sorts between her and Lucius, then Draco was all for it. He could just live with his mother somewhere else, in a property owned by the Black family, if Narcissa had access to it. After all, Bellatrix and Sirius were in Azkaban. She could probably even visit Azkaban and ask her cousin, Sirius, if he was sane in there. He probably was, considering all that fat lump Wormtail did was talk about how he led the Dark Lord to the chosen one, instead of Sirius. Which meant Black had been innocent, all those years. Until Bellatrix killed him, which she boasted about, once.

Or…

Draco could...free Sirius. And he could find a way to get his mother and himself away from Lucius, fix things between Narcissa and Sirius, and they could all live together!

Of course, this idea was his eleven-year-old idiocy shining through. Things couldn’t possibly get that easy. Draco would have to eventually choose between his mother and staying in Lucius’ home at Malfoy Manor, or getting sorted somewhere other than Slytherin, associate with a bunch Mudbloods: muggle-borns, half-breeds, muggles, anyone he could find, really, and lose them both.

There were so many options, and Draco found himself in actuality: panicking, hating them all.

“Darling.”

 _Here we go._ Had Narcissa or Lucius _ever_ told Draco explicitly they loved him? Said the three words? Draco couldn’t remember. Maybe Narcissa had, but once the war started up again, it was all about the Dark Lord. They had both told him they were proud, at times. But love?

“You know I will always love you, right?”

The penny dropped. Draco’s jaw fell open, his eyes glazing over. He didn’t think she would say it. He didn’t think she would _ever_ say it. His chest was tickling with something, something warm. Draco’s stomach fell, and all of a sudden, he couldn’t _look_ at her. He started fidgeting with his bedsheets, already made by some house-elf.

But little did Draco know, Narcissa _had_ said it before. She told her son so every night that she put Draco to bed, as a child. And for Draco to forget that, well… it was just another part of his dickish personality? No. It was the war that took her love away from him. And Narcissa hadn’t told Draco this in a long time, not in his recent memory, he’d say. Because the war had let it all slip away: the bedtime stories, the kisses goodnight. But Draco didn’t know any of this.

“Draco, you’re looking at me like I’ve never said that to you before,” said Narcissa, unsure. “I do love you.”

 _But do you love me enough_? Thought Draco.

“I would love you the same, even if you were sorted into Hufflepuff,” she continued, “I hope you know that. I cannot say the same for your father, if you were, but we both know you’ll be the perfect Slytherin we raised you to be, correct? You do not need to worry.”

Her last two sentences brought down Draco’s mood a bit. But she had still _said_ it, for the first time since he could remember. Narcissa told Draco she loved him!

“I just got scared, is all, mum.” Draco brought down the hysterics and tried to dry his eyes, saying this unsurely.

And _then_ , Narcissa hugged him. Willingly! It was a short hug, but it counted. No stiff posture here, it was all a warm embrace from his mother. Narcissa then leaned back and said,

“Darling, why don’t we take a trip to Diagon Alley, today? We can get your school supplies, late July is a good time to go, August is filled with muggles and scrambling families, especially the closer it gets to September. ...It might help you feel better.”

“O-ok,” nodded Draco- it meant he could get his wand! Even three days without magic was boring enough- all the mundane things he had to _do_ , like jump on a stool to get his clothes from the wardrobe, instead of just summoning it.

“Good. I’ll help you clean up.” Narcissa said as she stood up and flicked her wand at the bed they were just sitting on, removing it of creases instantly. She then cleared away his used clothing and sent it to the house elves to be washed.

Then, she left.

Draco stood up on the stool, trying to decide what to wear. He finally settled on a nice-looking muggle outfit, remembering that he would be fitted for robes that day. It also might dissuade stares from other wizards, if he dressed more muggle, rather than some kind of expensive robe, especially if he was going with just his mother this time.       

At least Lucius was at the Ministry, today, or would eventually have to leave to go to the Ministry. Draco didn’t fancy seeing him at all, really.

“Are you ready, Draco?” Narcissa met her son at the bottom of the main stairwell. Draco nodded, watching her expression as she took in his muggle clothing. Sure, Draco, as a young boy, owned lots of muggle clothing for playtime, especially when he ran about the manor or when he was getting dirty outside. Lucius nor Narcissa actually referred to them as ‘muggle clothing’, but Draco knew from seeing Granger around that that was what they were. But wearing muggle clothing out, as a pureblood, was very different.

“Are your robes too small?” Narcissa said, “We’ll have to get you new everyday ones when we go out.”

“No, they’re fine, mother,” answered Draco. “I was just thinking I might run into people in Diagon Alley. I don’t want everyone thinking I’m snooty, like father.” Oops.

There was a pause before Narcissa said, airily, “It’s important to know your place in society, Draco. As a pureblood, dressing like one is important. And don’t talk about your father that way.”

The regular, old Narcissa was back. The Narcissa that constantly berated him to look his best, act his best, but not lower himself to the likes of a mudblood.

“Sorry, mother. But…” Draco struggled for the words, getting slightly worked up when he couldn’t find them, “I mean no disrespect to father, but I would rather be my own person in public when I’m at Hogwarts- isn’t it best to start practicing now?”

“As long as you remember that you are a Malfoy,” said Narcissa, her eyes changing, making Draco fear he’d said too much. “You are your father’s heir, and you must act like it.”

He had certainly said too much. Draco didn’t like the idea of making his mother angry, especially when he just got her back.

But with what he had in store…

“Sorry, mother.” He said, his eyes turned to the floor. Narcissa nodded, her airy expression lowering into something that might have passed for pity.

“Come, Draco.” Narcissa offered her arm, and with that, they apparated to Diagon Alley.


	3. Chapter 3

Diagon Alley, before the war, had been bright, crowded, and full of shops. During the war, only a few stores stayed open for business: _Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes_ , for one. Even in Knockturn Alley, only _Borgin and Burkes_ still found some success. Draco was overcome with nostalgia, seeing it now, in all its vivid colours. It was nothing like the boarded up, virtually empty, and grey alley he remembered. Had the manor not provided most of his things, Draco would have had no books and limited supplies for his seventh year.

“Where would you like to go first, Draco?” Narcissa hurried him out of the apparation zone, as Draco regained his composure. It would not do well to have someone apparate on top of them, which is why they had to move as soon as possible.

“…I don’t know.” Draco answered Narcissa’s question. Suddenly realising something, Draco blurted, “I forgot my Hogwarts letter in my room!”

“Hush, Draco. I have it right here.” Narcissa pulled the piece of parchment out of her purse, “Now, I suppose we’ll get all the boring supplies out of the way. _Scribbulus Writing Instruments_ , for your quills and stationery…”

As she mulled it over, Draco found the stationery shop for her. “Let’s go!”

Draco was more accurate at playing the excited eleven-year-old than he thought, because Diagon Alley’s shops were all open, with windows displaying spellbooks, potion ingredients, and cauldrons. Even Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour was open.

“Can we get ice creams, mother? Please, please?” Draco begged, to which Narcissa replied, “After we finish our shopping, darling.”

They entered Scribbulus and purchased all the best quills and the highest quality parchment, according to Narcissa. Draco wasn’t used to anything else, anyway. Then, they entered Flourish and Blotts, where they found all of the first-year texts, (Draco had forgotten most of the titles by now) which included some of the ones he did remember, _The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 1, A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration,_ and _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_. Draco laughed at the title of the last one.

Then, upon shrinking the rather extensive booklist, Draco picked out a few of his own: _Saucy Tricks for Tricky Sorts, Modern Magical Law,_ and _Dominating Dementors: A True History of Azkaban._

Narcissa turned a blind eye, for she was more interested in extra books to help Draco get ahead, not that he would be using them.

Once they left Flourish and Blotts, they went and got the rest of the supplies, like Draco’s cauldron, scales, and potions kit.

When Draco entered _Madame Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions,_ he stood on the stool, reminding himself gleefully that he wouldn’t have to hide his left forearm this time. As he got fitted for his robes, he certainly didn’t expect to see an eleven-year-old Harry Potter of all people. He expected to run into maybe Longbottom, knowing how clumsy the boy was, but never _Potter_.

And Merlin, was he scrawny. Scrawnier than Draco, in fact. Draco didn’t know how that was _possible._ Potter was dressed in a much too large grey muggle shirt, trousers that looked to be held up by a belt with extra notches put in. Was this really Potter’s attempt at blending in? His wizarding family- oh.

Potter had come to Hogwarts from the muggle world, hadn’t he? While at school, Draco didn’t remember taunting him for any other reason than his parents were dead, or no one wanted him, but he couldn’t remember who his exact guardians were. He heard rumours of his aunt and uncle, and it had spread through Slytherin eventually that Potter had been raised by muggles, but surely even the muggles knew how dress their charge, right?

Madam Malkin stood Potter on a stool next to him and slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.

Potter was staring at him and Draco had to have something to say. “Hello,” he decided on, “Are you going to Hogwarts in September? First-year?”

“Yes,” Potter said.

“Brilliant! It’s the only magical school in Britain. I suppose we don’t have much of a choice, now do we?” Draco tried joking. So far, Potter didn’t look exactly like he hated him, did he?

“No, I suppose we don’t,” said Potter.

“I can’t wait to go! I’m Draco. I wonder if we will be in the same House?” Draco said, avoiding any topic where Potter would have to know a lot. It was obvious he didn’t know much. _What a shame_ , he thought, offhandedly, _and to think that Dumbledore expected him to be able to defeat the Dark Lord after only six years of being in the magical world._

“I’m Harry,” it was obvious that the poor kid was nervous. “Hogwarts has Houses?”

“Oh, do you live with muggles? That’s alright,” said Draco, keeping his eyes from rolling back into his head, “Erm- there are four. Gryffindor, for the brave and noble, Slytherin for the ambitious, Ravenclaw for the wise, and Hufflepuff for the friendly. What do you think sounds most like you? We get sorted on the first day.”

“I don’t know,” shrugged Potter. “What house do you think you’ll be in?”

"Probably Gryffindor,” said Draco nonchalantly, but his expression became serious, as if he was letting Potter in on a very big secret, “But don’t tell my mum, if she comes in here. My parents were both in Slytherin, and those two houses have a really serious rivalry. You see, there are a lot of people in Slytherin who are utter bigots, who think that mu- _muggle-borns_ shouldn’t be allowed in Hogwarts. Most of them are purebloods, which means you have two wizarding parents, like me, but I don’t think that way. I want to get into Gryffindor to make them mad.”

“Wow,” said Potter. “So... Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff?”

“Yes.”

“I think Hagrid said something about my parents being in… Gryffindor, I think he said,” Potter spoke, thinking. “Does that mean I should be in a different house?”

“No,” said Draco, a little too quickly. “Sorry. Erm, what I meant to say was most people are in the same house as their parents were. But some change. I just want to be in Gryffindor because Slytherin is full of awful people who study dark magic.” Draco winced a little, internally, at bad-mouthing his former house. But Potter _needed_ to be in Gryffindor, or else Draco getting sorted there would be for almost nothing.

“I thought you said your parents were in Slytherin?” said Potter, as they hopped off the stools. Draco and Harry walked outside together, where Draco spotted Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour once more. He was still aching for an ice cream.

“Exactly. I don’t want to be anywhere near my father after I go to Hogwarts,” Draco nodded, “I just can’t stand him. He rather likes the dark arts. If it were _my_ choice, I’d just go and live with my mother.” Draco said, in a tone with real venom.

“Oh. My guardians are muggles, and they’re bad enough,” Potter nodded, and Draco wondered how exactly Potty could sympathize. But he seemed to be getting somewhere, after all. “I get all of my cousin’s old hand-me-downs. And Dudley had two bedrooms up until last week, and my bedroom was the cupboard.”

“The cupboard?” Draco said, surprised, “ _What?_ ”

“Yeah.” Potter grew quiet all of a sudden. “My parents, they died when I was little, and I went to go live with my muggle aunt and uncle.”

Draco was rolling his eyes internally. Why was Potter telling him this? Draco knew this, and although he was sympathetic, he was more concerned with the fact that Potter just seemed to go around, telling people about his muggle aunt and uncle who apparently treated him like a house elf.

“Have you told anyone this before?” said Draco, interested.

“No,” Potter was blushing! “It’s just, you’re nice, and you look like you would understand.”

“Yeah, but I’ve never-” Draco started, turning pink at being called nice, but he thought Potter might get closed off if he said it that way. “I do. I do understand. My father’s old-fashioned, in that way.”     

Draco was trying to get Potter caught on without Draco having to say it. Luckily, Potter understood, and just stared at him with through those spello-taped glasses, with those damned and rare green eyes.

Kid Potter, when he didn’t hate Draco, wasn’t all that bad. Draco was even starting to _respect_ him, a little bit.

“Anyway. Do you want some ice cream? I’ll buy,” said Draco, unsure if Potter had money or not.

“Oh, I have money,” said Potter. “Maybe _I_ should buy us some ice cream.”

Draco knew better than to start an argument with the Boy-Who-Lived, and for the first time in his life, he let someone else outside his family buy him ice cream.

“That’s weird,” said Draco, “The muggle pictures don’t move?”

“Yeah,” Harry was explaining some of the differences between the magical and the muggle world. One of the differences were the pictures. Draco couldn’t imagine a world where the photographs and portraits couldn’t move! “I was so surprised when the pictures on the book covers started moving in Flourish and Blotts!”

“Wow. I couldn’t imagine a world without them. Say, have you heard of Quidditch?”

“No. What’s Quidditch?”       

“It’s our sport. We play it up in the air, on broomsticks. See that shop over there? We should go in when we finish our ice creams! Everyone follows it, it’s brilliant. There are four balls, the Quaffle, it’s really big and red. There are different positions…” As Draco explained the rules, Harry grew more and more interested. He was almost done explaining the Snitch and the Seeker- how ironic, as Harry would become the youngest seeker in a century- when Hagrid the Half-Giant emerged from the Leaky Cauldron across the way.

“Allo, ‘Arry!” Hagrid said. Draco almost sneered at the great oaf, but stopped himself just in time. Memories of the Battle of Hogwarts flashed through his mind, and Draco quickly remembered the half-giant’s anguish after he carried Potter’s body out of the Forbidden Forest, and into the courtyard. He remembered when Dumbledore’s Army, led by Longbottom, started attacking the Death Eaters who remained, and how it had been Longbottom who finished the job, Voldemort being then mortal.

“Draco?” Harry was prodding him, concerned.

“Oh,” Draco blinked, “Sorry. Hello. Are you Hagrid? I heard from my mother that you do really important work as groundskeeper, like keeping students out of the Forbidden Forest.” He said earnestly, shivering.

“Yes, I dunno wher yeh heard tha,” responded Hagrid, in his ridiculous accent, “Thanks fer keepin’ ‘Arry company.”

“Can Draco finish shopping with us?” Potter asked, all too desperately, and Draco vastly wondered if he had really made that big of an impression so soon.

“Oh,” Draco said, “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Nonsense.” Harry turned to him. “You’re my first friend I’ve made in the Wizarding World. Will you come and finish shopping with us? I don’t see your mum.”

Draco looked around, and Harry was right. She had probably slipped in a trip to Knockturn Alley in search of who knows what, probably with a shopping list from his father. But…Potter had called him his _friend_. Who knows if that would change, but a _friend_. Draco never had friends, before. It was just Crabbe and Goyle, who Draco was fairly certain were bullied into hanging out with him by his father. Plus, they were goons. At this stage in life, on par with Hagrid. And Kid Potter was alright.

“Alright,” Draco relented. “Is that okay with you, Hagrid?”

If Hagrid recognized him to be a Malfoy, he didn’t say anything. Draco thought that odd, because as Hagrid explained the houses all over again to Harry, he showed an extreme bias toward Gryffindor.

"There’s not a single witch or wizard who went bad in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one.” Hagrid said, and as he did, Harry looked at Draco with fear. But it wasn’t in fear of Draco. Draco guessed it might be in fear of his father, whom Draco had badmouthed twice already.

At this point, Draco didn’t even bother in correcting Hagrid. He was busy checking Harry’s supply list anyway, and the conversation had moved on.

“Just yer wand left- oh yeah, an’ I still haven’t got yeh a birthday present.” Hagrid was saying. Harry turned red, and Draco stared at him oddly.

“You don’t have to-” Harry said.

“I know I don’t have to. Tell yeh what, I’ll get yeh an’ animal. Not a toad, toads went outta’ fashion years ago, yeh’d be laughed at- an’ I don’ like cats, they make me sneeze. I’ll get yer an owl. All the kids want owls, they’re dead useful, carry yer mail an’ everythin’.” Hagrid seemed firm on this. Draco looked from him to Harry.

“It’s your birthday?” Draco said, again with surprise. Funny that he didn’t even know the saviour of the wizarding world’s own birthday.

“Yes,” said Harry. “I got my letter last night.”

“Oh,” blinked Draco, “Wow. My birthday’s the 5th of June. I’m older than you!”

Harry pretended to be sullen. “They all are.”

Then, they both laughed as they entered Eyelops Owl Emporium, a shop that was very dark inside and full of jewel-bright eyes. Draco suddenly thought of his own eagle owl, which he had gotten in first-year, and named Rufus. It hadn’t been a particularly creative name, but Draco still wanted the owl back and naming him anything else would feel weird. So Draco muttered something about his mother saying he could get an owl (he was sure Hagrid didn’t care, and wouldn’t stop him). He looked around and it took five minutes of peering at the owls before he found Rufus, ruffling his feathers in his cage.

Draco made eye contact with the eagle owl, and he knew he wouldn’t have anything else. Rufus was his owl. Bottom line.

Ten minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, both eleven-year-olds carrying large cages, Draco with Rufus, and Harry with a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. He couldn’t stop stammering his thanks to Hagrid, and Draco resisted to roll his eyes yet again.

“Don’ mention it,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Don’ expect you’ve had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now- only place fer wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand.”

Was Hagrid right? Did Potter not get birthday presents, not once? What in the bloody hell? Poor Kid Potter.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of Ollivanders as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Draco felt as though he had entered a very strict library. He saw Harry swallowing a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him upon entering, and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

Draco was very weirded out. He was fairly sure he hadn’t noticed this the first time around. Speaking of the first time around, where was Narcissa? Was she looking for him? Would she be mad if he got a wand without her being there? Draco didn’t know.

“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Draco and Harry both jumped. Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the spindly chair. An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

“Hello,” said Harry awkwardly.

“Ah yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.”

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Draco started to wish he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

“Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it—it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.”

Mr. Ollivander had come so close that himself and Harry were almost nose to nose.

“And that’s where…”

Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead with a long, white finger. He shook his head and then, with interest, noticed Draco, who was staring at the floor, lost in memories of hearing the prisoners at Malfoy Manor. When Voldemort would torture his victims. And Draco would be able to hear them from his room.

“Draco Malfoy.” Mr. Ollivander said softly, “Eleven inches. Hawthorn and dragon heartstring.”

“Excuse me?” He said, hoping he’d heard wrong. _What the fuck did Ollivander know?_ How did he know? What? WHAT?!


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh, I must apologize,” said Ollivander, “Your mother. Narcissa. Her wand, hawthorn, eleven inches, with dragon heartstring. And Lucius, your father, eighteen inches, yes? Elm and also dragon heartstring?’

Draco forced himself to calm down. He forgot that he had been using Narcissa’s wand since April 1998, after Potter had stolen Draco’s own wand from Malfoy Manor after escaping the dungeons _with_ Ollivander. And his original hawthorn wand had never been found, after Potter’s death in the old timeline. It had been the only wand to really _get_ him. Draco would rather like it back.

“Oh,” blinked Draco quickly.

“Hmmm,” said Mr. Ollivander, “We’ll get started with Mr. Malfoy, I have a feeling I know exactly what you need.” He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”

“My right,” said Draco. He was already holding out his arm. Ollivander measured Draco from shoulder to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and round his head. As he measured, he said “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Malfoy. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard’s wand.”

Draco knew this from experience. When he had used his mother’s wand (which he had ended up keeping, for fear the Ministry would have snapped it had he handed it in), all of his spells weren’t the same.

Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes. “Right then, Mr. Malfoy. Try this one. Elm wood, thirteen and three-quarter inches. Dragon heartstring. Rather similar to your father’s, I would say.”

Draco nearly dropped it in disgust. Thankfully, the wand replied mutually.

"Pine and unicorn hair, ten inches exactly.” Ollivander snatched it out of his hand at once.

“I wonder,” He started muttering, after Draco had tried several more wands, all with either unicorn hair or dragon heartstring. Draco seriously was getting bored, and wanted to just bloody tell Ollivander that the wand he was looking for was hawthorn, ten inches, unicorn hair.

And that was the next wand he tried. “Hawthorn, ten inches, unicorn hair.”

And Draco grasped it, ready to feel the welcoming magic of a wand that chose him.

Expectedly, the hawthorn wand lit up a brilliant shower of gold sparks.

“Well done, Draco!” Eleven-year-old Harry was clapping (so was Hagrid), gazing in awe at the shower of sparks. “You’re going to be such a great wizard!”  

“Thanks,” Draco said, feeling at home with his old hawthorn wand.

Ollivander put Draco’s wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper.

“Mr. Potter, come here.”

Draco made his way over to the stool, next to Hagrid, as Harry stood up to try wands. Sure enough, about twenty wands later, the Harry’s old wand chose Harry. And then, they were done with shopping.

“Where’s your mum, Draco?” Harry was looking around, but Draco didn’t know why: it wasn’t like Harry knew what she looked like, yet.

"I don’t know.”

Almost on cue, Narcissa Malfoy made her appearance over by Madame Malkin’s, her face paler than normal. As soon as Draco shouted, “MUM!” she came racing over.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” Draco would have to change that middle name. Narcissa scolded him heavily, “Where have you been? I have been searching Diagon Alley for _hours_. Do you know how much embarrassment this has caused me? A Malfoy who cannot keep track of her own child? I thought you had been kidnapped, or- or- sold, or-”

Draco raised a hand to his own cheek, now stinging from Narcissa’s hand. Harry, who was standing beside him, looked to him in horror. Draco almost chuckled. Harry thought his mother was slapping him because she wanted to hurt him. How cute.

Narcissa slapped Draco a couple of times throughout the war to show Draco she cared, to be truthful. He almost missed the gesture. It was also always a light slap. But to Harry, who was unfamiliar to the sentimentality, it seemed horrible.

“It’s okay,” Draco mouthed to Harry, but he obviously didn’t get it. He tried again. “I’m sorry mum, I lost you and I couldn’t find you, so I went shopping with my friend Harry.”

“Harry?” Narcissa said, snapping to her son’s attention. “Harry? What Harry? I was unaware you had a friend named Harry.”

“Harry Potter?” Draco said uneasily, “We met at Madam Malkin’s.”

“Oh,” Narcissa said, finally seeing the raven-haired, green-eyed boy in the sello-taped glasses and his cousin’s old rags. “Hello, Mr. Potter.”

“Hello, Mrs. Malfoy.” Harry said respectfully.

“Well, Harry, if you don’t mind, I think I will be taking Draco home with me right now,” Narcissa said, glaring at her son. Draco at least had the grace to look ashamed.

Just as Narcissa took Draco’s shoulder to lead him out of the crowded alley, Harry stumbled forward, “Wait!” he shouted.

Draco turned around. “Can we say goodbye?” he asked his mother.

“One minute.” Narcissa said, for she was quite angry.

“Hi,” said Draco.

"Hi,” Harry said back.

“I want you to know I had a really fun time talking to you today,” Draco told Harry, on a whim. He truly had fun. Even Narcissa’s slap.

“Me, too.”

Then, so his mother wouldn’t hear, Draco whispered into Harry’s ear, “Remember that my mum won’t like it when I’m sorted into Gryffindor with you,” he said, a grin on his face.

Harry grinned back.

 

* * *

 

 

For most of August, Narcissa grounded him. He wasn’t allowed to go out and fly, not that Draco had for some time since leaving Hogwarts in the other timeline. He was allowed to read his course books, which he read some, but who really cares about first-year material, anyway? It was going to be super bloody easy.

He did try all of the first-year spells with his hawthorn wand, which made him feel warm and fuzzy again. He was successful at most, but most took a few tries to get working, because of his eleven-year-old magical core. Draco felt it growing and gaining in power with each successful spell, however.

He had to do this whenever Narcissa wasn’t popping her head in his door.

But not soon enough, August passed by, and it was the evening of the 31st. Draco packed nearly everything that night, for he needed his school things to entertain him while he was stuck in his room. But he put everything inside, checking and double-checking and triple-checking his packing list, his wardrobe, his desk, his bed, and underneath his bed for anything he might accidentally leave behind.

He only had one nightmare that night, because of his excitement.

 

* * *

 

           

The morning of September 1st, Narcissa was under the impression that she had woken him up, but really, Draco had been up for hours. He was simply too excited to get out of Malfoy Manor, (dare he say it) get disowned, and never have to return to the nightmare-creator-prison again. Draco _knew_ it wasn’t that simple, that Lucius wouldn’t be so quick to disown him, anyway. Would he even disown Draco, knowing he had no other choice for an heir?

Narcissa and Lucius escorted Draco to the station at 10:30 am, “giving Draco an ample amount of time to find Crabbe and Goyle and a compartment,” according to Lucius. Little did Lucius know, was that Draco had no intention of hanging out with those buffoons- not in this lifetime.

Since they usually arrived at the apparation point at King’s Cross in Draco’s later years, they never had to cross through the barrier, but this time, Narcissa wanted him to experience it at least once. “It’s how my father took us to King’s Cross for Bella’s first year at Hogwarts,” said Narcissa fondly, reminiscing on her Azkaban-sullied sister.

Draco gagged at the thought of being in the same year at Hogwarts as his aunt Bellatrix. She was bad enough as an _aunt_ , at least, after she escaped.

He stalled running through the barrier, looking around for Kid Potter, who most likely didn’t know how to get through the barrier. Draco looked at Lucius, who was clearly impatient and had some rather ironic anxiety around all the muggles.

He looked around again. Then, Draco spotted him. He winked at Harry, without his parents looking, as if communicating not to approach, and then turned around and ran straight through the barrier. Lucius and Narcissa followed straight through.

Draco only had to thank Lucius for putting his luggage on the train. Other than that, the Malfoy patriarch gave him a quick nod, a “make me proud,” and that was that.

 _Fuck you, Lucius_.

With Narcissa, everything was a bit slower. Draco hugged her tightly, drinking in her scent one last time, just in case his sorting would be too much and he would never see her as she was ever again.

"Goodbye, my love,” Narcissa whispered, as Lucius looked on, a slight sneer on his face. What man could sneer at a mother hugging goodbye to her son? _Fuck. You. Lucius._

Draco narrowed his eyes at the man. “Goodbye, mother.” And with a completely different tone, “Goodbye, father.”

And he got on the Hogwarts Express without looking back.

 

It took ten minutes for Harry to arrive, and when Draco asked him what took him so long, Harry replied, “Everyone kept looking! I couldn’t just _go_ subtlety.” They both laughed and sat down, waiting for the train to begin moving. It was 10:50am.

The Hogwarts Express pulled out of the station ten minutes later, exactly. Draco leaned back in the compartment seat, feeling content to just lay there until the trolley lady came round. But it wasn’t the trolley lady who came next to their compartment.

The door slid open and an eleven-year-old Ron Weasley came inside. _Weasley is our king..._ Draco found himself singing at once. It was quite the nostalgic trip.

“Anyone sitting here?” The Weasel King said, pointing to the seat beside Draco. “Everywhere else is full.”

Draco considered telling Weaselbee to back off, but he was sure that Harry wouldn’t like that, especially with how nice Draco had been pretending to be. And plus, when he introduced himself as Draco Malfoy, Ron would have half a mind to get out, anyway. The Weasel had always hated him from day one.

“Hey Ron.”

There were two more Weasleys in the doorway. They bred like rabbits. It was the twins. Draco looked both of them up and down, remembering the terrible scene that he witnessed after the battle was done. When Fred Weasley was dead and lying in the Great Hall, among the others.

Looking at them now, Draco couldn’t exactly tell which one would later die and which one would live. He examined both of their faces, but he didn’t know them well enough to tell. He didn’t want to be seen staring, so he quickly put his eyes on the ground. More memories. Draco really needed to work on that.

“...a giant tarantula down there,” they had been saying.

“Right,” mumbled Ron.

“Harry,” said another twin, “did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later then. Hi,” The second one acknowledged Draco in passing. Draco gave a forced, but weak smile back.

“Bye.” Harry and Ron said as the compartment door slid shut.

“Are you really Harry Potter?” With one sentence, and Ron was demoted back down to just Weasel. Draco resisted another internal eye roll.

Harry nodded. As the two conversed, Draco’s eyes were on the scenery outside. It had been a long time since he’d ridden the Hogwarts Express.

“And who are you?” Weasel focused on Draco, but he obviously didn’t recognize him for who he was, yet.

“Draco. Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh.” Something in Weasel’s expression changed, “Do you know Harry?”

"Yes,” responded Draco at once, psycho-analyzing his body language, “We met in Diagon Alley. I got lost and we did our shopping together.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” interrupted Harry, for a moment. “Was your mum cross? She looked livid when she took you away.”

Weaselbee’s attention grew. Having no need to satisfy the blood-traitor Weasel with a story about the pureblooded Narcissa Malfoy, Draco kept his answer short.

“Pretty cross, yeah. Got grounded for the rest of the summer. I wasn’t even allowed to fly. Hey Ron, have you got a Quidditch team?” Draco figured turning all of the attention on Ron was best, he seemed to be stewing something in that dumb brain of his. What Draco _didn’t_ want was for Weasel to start hating him immediately, for he’d rather build something up between them, first.

“Um, Chudley Cannons.” _Typical Weaselbee._

“Oh. They used to be a lot better, didn’t they? But that means you’re not sort of a bandwagoner. My mother changes her mind every time the World Cup rolls around.” Draco said. “Me personally, I’ve always supported Puddlemere United.”

“They’re rubbish this year.”

“I know,” grinned Draco.

“You must get to go to games a lot, then.” Weasel was saying. He was frowning a bit, Draco suspected jealousy. Instead of an eye roll, with this, he’d like to bang his head on the wall.

“Not really. I think I’ve only been to one World Cup. My father gets tickets from the Ministry every once and awhile, but that’s only if it’s a UK team that’s doing well. But he always uses them for himself.” Draco remembered his later childhood, where Lucius started to care less and less. Draco only got out of the manor during the summer when there was a ball, or a shopping trip to Diagon Alley.

“He doesn’t take you?” Harry said, figuring that a Quidditch game was like a football game.

“No. He’d usually take some higher Ministry official, if he needed to bribe them. Especially that Barty Crouch.” Now that he thought about it, even if Lucius had tickets, he would give them to other people to go in his place. All the time.

Ron looked less red, now. “That sucks,” he said.

“Eh, my childhood was pretty lonely. I’ve got no siblings, what about you?” Draco fielded the question to Weaselbee.

“I’ve got six,” Ron said, and for some reason, he was looking gloomy. Draco stared and waited for him to continue. “Five brothers and a sister. I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I’ve got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left- Bill was head boy and Charlie was a Quidditch captain. Now, Percy’s a prefect... Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they’re really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it’s no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I’ve got Bill’s old robes, Charlie’s old wand, and Percy’s old rat.”

Draco wondered if it was an eleven-year-old thing to do, offloading all of their deep, personal troubles to each other.

Weaselbee was reaching inside his jacket and pulling out a fat brown rat, which was asleep. He showed it to Draco. And as he did, Draco couldn’t help but feel like he’d seen the rat before.

“His name’s Scabbers and he’s useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn’t aff- I mean, I got Scabbers instead.”

Ron’s ears and cheeks went pink. He seemed to think he’d said too much, because he went back to staring out the window. Draco chewed on some of his words, wondering what that rat had to do with his utterly uncomfortable feeling.

Harry, expectedly, started offloading some of _his_ deep, personal troubles to both Draco and Ron. He took it upon himself to tell Ron all about having to wear his cousin’s old clothes and never getting any proper birthday presents. This seemed to cheer the Weasel up.

“...and until Hagrid told me, I didn’t know anything about being a wizard or about my parents or Voldemort-”

Draco nodded in approval when Harry said the Dark Lord’s name, while Ron gasped.

“What?” said Harry.

“You said You-Know-Who’s name!” said Ron, sounding both shocked and impressed. “I’d have thought you, of all people-”

“I’m not trying to be brave or anything, saying his name,” said Harry, “I just never knew you shouldn’t. See what I mean? I’ve got loads to learn... I bet,” he added, looking like he was voicing for the first time something that was truly bothering him, “I bet I’m the worst in the class.”

Draco sat back. That was it? Potter’s greatest fear at the age of eleven was being at the bottom of the class? “You won’t be,” Draco cut in, “There’s loads of people who come from muggle families at Hogwarts, and they learn quick enough.”

While they had been talking, the train had carried them out of London. Now, they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a time, watching the fields and lanes flick past.

Around half past twelve, there was a great clattering outside in the corridor, and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, “Anything off the cart, dears?”

Draco, who had a very serious sweet tooth, jumped up, while Harry did the same. The Weasel went pink again, muttering that he’d brought sandwiches.

Harry got out into the corridor and started looking like he didn’t know what any of the wizarding candy was. Draco lamented at the fact that poor Kid Potter didn’t even know what a chocolate frog was! Nor pumpkin pasties, cauldron cakes, licorice wands, never mind Bertie Bott’s!

This was a travesty, Draco decided. And he bought some of everything, as did Harry, and went to carry it all back into the compartment.

“Hungry, are you?” said Ron.

“Starving,” said Harry, taking a large bit of a pumpkin pasty.

Ron looked to Draco, who simply shrugged. “I have a problem,” he said.

The Weasel had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There were four sandwiches inside. He pulled one of them apart and said, “She always forgets I don’t like corned beef.”

“Swap you,” said Harry and Draco together. Weaselbee might have been annoying in the other timeline, but if a man was carrying beef, then well...

“You don’t want this, it’s all dry,” said Ron. “She hasn’t got much time,” he added quickly, “you know, with five of us.”

“Go on, have a pasty,” said Harry. Draco shrugged along. It was a nice feeling, sitting there with his old school nemeses, neither dead nor ruined by the war, eating their way through pasties, cakes, and candies. The sandwiches ended up laying forgotten.

“What are these?” Harry asked, every now and then. Draco and Ron would take turns explaining each candy.

Draco never recalled keeping many chocolate frog cards, growing up. Apparently, Weasley had a whole collection. “See what the card is,” said Weasley, “I’m missing Agrippa.”

“What?” Harry asked.

"Oh, he doesn’t know,” Draco said, “Chocolate Frogs have cards at the bottom of their boxes, you know. Pictures and brief biographies of famous witch or wizards. Loads of people collect them.”

“Do you?” asked Harry.

Draco made a face and shook his head. “I could never keep track of them all. I didn’t have anyone to trade with, mind you- no Weasley siblings or friends in that like.”

“I’ve got about five hundred,” said Ron as he bit through a frog, “But I haven’t got Agrippa or Ptolemy.”

“That’s a lot.” Draco raised his eyebrows.

"I know. No one else in my family collects except me, that’s why they give me all their cards.”

Draco had trouble believing the Weasleys could even afford 500 chocolate frogs, even over the years. But he let it slide. He showed the card he had just unwrapped to Ron, who shook his head. Draco threw it on the floor.

“Albus Dumbledore!” said Harry.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Dumbledore!” Ron said. “Can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa, thanks-”

Watching the boys bond, Draco settled back on the seat to look at those woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills that they were passing by.


	5. Chapter 5

When all three of them awoke from their train nap (Draco had probably been the first to nod off), there was a knock on the door of their compartment and who was the next to enter?

Neville. Longbottom.

Oh, this was good. Neville Longbottom was a pudgy boy in his youth, with a round face, a gullible exterior, and had been one of Draco’s bully victims when Draco had been a boy. But Draco was older now, and as he stared at Longbottom’s face, he’d rather have been sick.

“Sorry,” Longbottom said, “but have you seen a toad at all?”

Draco’s compartment mates shook their head. But Draco wished he was still asleep, because the moment they did, Neville started wailing, “I’ve lost him! He keeps getting away from me!”

Fearing that blubbering Longbottom would trigger a migraine, Draco decided to intervene. Maybe it would make up for how horrible he’d treated Neville while at school in the first timeline. “Hey now,” said Draco, “He’ll turn up. Want us to go with you to the prefect’s carriage? I’m sure they can summon him for you.”

“Oh,” said Longbottom, miserably. “They can do that?”

“Yes,” Draco replied. He looked to Harry and Ron as he said, “Would you like us to help?”

Ron looked uncomfortable with the idea, typical of Weasel. But Harry just stared at Draco, a neutral expression on his face.

“T-that’d be great,” Neville said. “Thank you...”

“Draco,” He introduced himself. “Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh,” Something in Neville’s face changed, very quickly, “Oh. Thank you, but I’m gonna just go look in another carriage. I think I know where he ran off to, now. Sorry.”

The boy had obviously been scared off. Draco turned to his compartment mates, his mouth open, but decided against it.

“What was that all about?” Ron said, swallowing a bite of chocolate frog leftover. Draco stared at the floor quietly, thinking.

He shook himself and looked up, only to find Harry and Weasel staring back at him, their faces intrigued. As much as Draco hated to admit it, Harry’s face showed concern.

“Um,” Draco managed (he figured he’d been beating around the bush for far too long), “You two know my father, Lucius Malfoy, right?” At once, Weasel nodded his head.

“Anyway, that boy, Neville Longbottom. He’s been brought up to believe that my father and me and my family are bad. And rightfully so, at least, the bit about my family. But not me, rather, I-”

Draco was trying to explain this to them without setting Ron off. He remembered meeting Weasley and Potter in a compartment on the train, in the old timeline, when older Potter had refused his hand in friendship the first time. And now that Draco was explaining Lucius Malfoy to them, similarly (in his mind, to the time before), their expressions didn’t change. So what had Draco done, to change Kid Potter’s and the Weasel’s minds?

“My whole family have been in Slytherin House. And if there were people that weren’t, we don’t talk about them. I had a cousin named Sirius who was in Gryffindor before I was born, but mum told me that he was blasted off the family tree. And Slytherin is filled with bad people, naturally,” Draco paused, collecting his thoughts. He wasn’t sounding like an eleven-year-old. He was starting to remember Crabbe, and Goyle, who had been his friends, but had used fiendfyre on the Room of Requirement. Dark magic. He remembered Theodore Nott. Death Eater. Pansy, a wannabe. Those who had stayed neutral had stayed alive, save for Pansy. Azkaban.

“Don’t know why he was so bothered,” said Ron, looking for confirmation. “You’re not one of those bad people, right? I mean, look at all these sweets.”

“No,” replied Draco, “I’m not.”

“ _And_ he even brought a toad to Hogwarts. If I were him, I’d lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I did bring Scabbers...” Ron was saying, refueling the conversation. Draco looked weakly at him, and smiled. It was weak, but it was a smile.

_Draco had smiled at Ron fucking Weasley._

The rat was still snoozing on Ron’s lap.

“He might have died and you wouldn’t know the difference,” said Ron in disgust. “I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn’t work. I’ll show you, look...”

Draco watched as he rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a very battered-looking wand. It was chipped in places and something white was glinting at the end. It looked like the unicorn hair was poking out. _Merlin, Weasley’s poor._

Ron had only just raised his wand when the compartment door slid open. Draco balked as he took in who entered next. It was almost as if these entrances were staged, like all his nightmares had come together to torment him at once!

Neville was back, but there was someone else with him. Mudblood Granger was already wearing her new Hogwarts robes, with her bushy brown hair and large front teeth. Draco forgot about those, and how _awful_ they had been in their youth.

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” Mudblood Granger said, her voice bossier than ever. Draco wanted to jump out of the train and fall under the tracks, killing himself. It would at least be better than suffering under her voice the _entire_ rest of the train ride.

“We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it,” Draco and Ron said, at different intervals, but Granger was looking at the wand in Ron’s hand.

"Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it then.” She sat down, and Draco actually considered leaving to go sit with a bunch of seventh-years. At least they would share his some semblance of sanity.

Ron tried the “spell.” It obviously was a prank, seeing as no spell in the wizarding world was actually formed that way. _Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid, fat, rat yellow._ Draco held in a cough. Uh huh.

“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” It certainly set Granger off, but at least Draco had the maturity to hold it in. “Well, it’s not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice and it’s all worked for me. Nobody in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard- I’ve learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough- I’m Hermione Granger by the way, who are you?” She took in several breaths after saying this. Draco was growing extremely irritable. Why couldn’t these people just leave them alone?

_Does she ever. Stop. Talking?_

“I’m Ron Weasley,” Ron muttered.

Harry was looking from Draco to Ron to Hermione to Neville, stunned to hear Granger had learned all the course-books by heart. Draco raised his eyebrows, smirking to himself: he would certainly beat out Granger in spell and coursework this year. Even though it was an unfair advantage, he’d love to put Granger in her place.

Granger was staring at him. Draco coughed and said, “Draco Malfoy,” quietly. He was too busy stewing on whether being top of his class would raise suspicion, or garner praise from Lucius. It was all too early to tell.

“Harry Potter,” Kid Potter finished.

“Are you really?” The mudblood said, and by that point, Draco zoned out. He started listening again when she started talking about the Hogwarts houses, several long, breathy paragraphs later.

“...I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad... Anyway, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad. You three had better change, you know, I expect we’ll be there soon.”

The compartment was then silent. “Whatever house I’m in, I hope she’s not in it,” said Ron. He threw his wand back into his trunk. “Stupid spell- George gave it to me, bet he knew it was a dud.”

“What house are your brothers in?” Harry asked.

“Gryffindor,” said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling on him again. “Mum and dad were in it, too. I don’t know what they’ll say if I’m not. I don’t suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but _imagine_ if they put me in Slytherin.”

Draco could imagine. He stared at his shoes, swinging his ankles around on the floor.

“That’s the house Vol- I mean, You-Know-Who was in?”

“Yeah,” said Ron. Draco grew disappointed, internally, when Harry didn’t say the Dark Lord’s name. He had hoped it would encourage himself to start saying the name Voldemort, too. Maybe everyone.

Another thirty minutes went by without an interruption. But their luck ran out again, as three familiar boys entered the compartment, but it wasn’t Longbottom or Mudblood Granger. Draco recognized them at once. Blaise Zabini, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle.

“So it’s true,” Zabini said, and Draco got a sick feeling of deja-vu. “They’re all saying down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. It’s you, then?”

Zabini made eye-contact with Draco, and then, his face turned sour upon recognizing Ron. But Draco was struck dumb for words, staring at Zabini and his company. The eleven-year-old versions of his only friends, whom he was now leaving for the likes of Weasel and Kid Potter. At Zabini’s side, they looked like extremely pathetic bodyguards.

Harry confirmed his identity.

Zabini didn’t even care to introduce them. “My name’s Blaise, Blaise Zabini,” he said, sticking his hand out for Potter to shake. Draco remembered an all too similar scene, years ago. But it had been Draco in Zabini’s spot. He was now staring straight at the floor, unable to look.

He heard Ron give a sort of cough. “You think my name’s funny. I don’t need to ask who you are,” Blaise’s eyes glinted. “The Weasleys all have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford. At least you’ve found my acquaintance, Draco. Maybe you’ll know then what’s good for you, Potter... Maybe, we should leave Weasley alone and you two can come join our compartment.”

Harry still wasn’t taking Zabini’s hand. “I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” He said coolly.

With Blaise’s Italian complexion, Draco saw him go red. “I’d be very careful, if I were you, Potter,” he said slowly. “Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents. They didn’t know what was good for them, either. You too, Draco. You don’t want your father finding out about your...other acquaintances, if you catch what I’m saying, here. Don’t want to be hanging out with riffraff like the Weasleys.”

Both Harry and Ron stood up. Draco raised himself, slowly. “Say that again,” he said, a pleasant expression on his face.

“Oh, you’re going to fight us like a muggle, now, Draco?” Blaise said, unsurely. “I would have thought one afternoon with Potter and Weasley wouldn’t have rubbed off on you, yet.”

“Unless you get out of here now,” Draco said firmly. He wasn’t afraid of them, or a whiny little boy like Zabini.

“But we don’t feel like leaving, do we, boys? We’ve eaten all our food and you still seem to have some.”

This was all very weird, for Draco. He remembered having this confrontation, but he was saying stuff similar to what Blaise had been saying. He remembered being on the other side of this.

Goyle was reaching toward the chocolate frogs next to Ron- Ron leapt forward, but before he’d so much as touched Goyle, Goyle let out a horrible yell.

Scabbers the rat was hanging off his finger, sharp little teeth sunk deep into Goyle’s knuckle- Crabbe and Zabini backed away as Goyle swung Scabbers round and round, howling. _What a baby,_ Draco thought. When Scabbers finally flew off and hit the window, all three of them disappeared at once. Perhaps they thought there were more rats lurking among the sweets, or perhaps they’d heard footsteps, because a second later, Hermione Granger had come in.

"What has been going on?” she said, looking at the sweets all over the floor and Ron picking up Scabbers by his tail.

“I think he’s been knocked out,” Ron said to Harry and Draco. He looked closer at Scabbers. “No- I don’t believe it- he’s gone back to sleep!”

And so he had. They carried on their conversation as if Mudblood Granger hadn’t barged in and interrupted everything.

“You’ve met Zabini before? You know him?”

Draco huffed. “Yes. He and his mother come to all my mother’s parties. We’ve known each other for some time, only as acquaintances. I didn’t know he was such a git.” And Draco was telling the truth. Zabini had treated him pretty neutrally throughout Draco’s years at Hogwarts. Draco wondered what had happened to make Blaise come to their compartment and treat them like this. _But you do know what happened,_ said a tiny voice at the back of Draco’s mind. Blaise was taking Draco’s place as the annoying brat in all of Potter’s confrontations, perhaps because they had to happen. But would this just keep happening, if Draco attempted to change the timeline? Endless replacement events of things that were supposed to occur? Draco didn’t know, and it made him sick.

"I’ve heard of his family,” said Ron, darkly. “His mum is the one who keeps getting remarried, right? And those husbands keep disappearing, along with their gold? My dad says she is definitely on the Dark Side.”

At least the Weasel was good for _something_. Draco thought that kind of useful conversation was beyond him. He turned to Granger. “Can we help you with something?”

“You’d better hurry up and put your robes on, I’ve just been up to the front to ask the conductor, and he says we’re nearly there. You haven’t been fighting, have you? You’ll be in trouble before we even get there!”

Draco wondered if she would ever shut up. Apparently, Ron was thinking the same.

“Scabbers has been fighting, not us,” Ron scowled at her. “Would you mind leaving while we change?”

“All right- I only came in here because people outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and down the corridors,” said Mudblood Granger, in a sniffy voice. Ron glared at her as she left. Draco just laughed, finally noticing the lamps had been turned on and that it was getting dark outside. That meant he was nearly there. He was nearly home.


	6. Chapter 6

A voice was echoing throughout the train. “We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train. It will be taken to the school separately.”

Draco peered out the window. The train did seem to be slowing down. He could see mountains and forests under a deep, purple sky. He was content as he, Ron, and Harry took off their jumpers and coats and shirts and exchanged them for their long, black robes. Draco noticed that Ron’s were a bit short, as he could see his trainers underneath them.           

Harry looked pale with nerves and Ron stared at them both, unsure of what was going to happen next. For the first time, Draco could share their nervousness. This was it.

The three of them crammed their pockets with the last of the sweets and joined the crowd thronging the corridor, the train slowing right down. It finally stopped, people pushing their way toward the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform. Draco shivered in the cold night air. Then, a lantern came bobbing over the heads of the students, and he heard a voice. “Firs’ years!”

 _Of. Fucking. Course._ To be totally honest, Draco didn’t really feel like spending time in those rickety boats, but he supposed he had to. He looked longingly at the other path that the older students were heading down as the first-years all slipped and stumbled down a steep, narrower path. Nobody spoke much. Draco thought that his second experience seemed more like an abduction, now that he thought about it. It was so dark on either side of them, and they were obviously taking a short cut through the Forbidden Forest. Draco shivered again. It was around here that he’d gotten into this mess in the first place.     

“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid the Half-Giant called over his shoulder, “jus’ round this bend here.”

There were _oohs_ from in front of him. The narrow path had opened suddenly, onto the edge of the Black Lake. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry sky, was that familiar, vast castle with those many turrets and towers.

Draco teared up a bit, full disclosure. It was hard to hold his emotions inside, when there was something that beautiful and _that_ meaningful to him, just across the lake. There was also the bit about Hogwarts not looking half-destroyed, like it did, only months ago to Draco.

It was beautiful. But could Draco save it?

He found himself in a boat with Ron, Harry, and the Mudblood Granger. It was a shorter ride and Draco barely paid any attention. Then, upon docking in a dark and musty boathouse, the first-years walked up several flights of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door.

Hagrid raised his gigantic fist and knocked three times, but the door swung open at once. The dramatics seemed pointless.

On the other side of the door, a one Minerva McGonagall stood, her face locked in a classic stern expression. Typical. Draco was a little glad to see her again, even though she survived the war and was now Headmistress of Hogwarts. Actually, she _was._

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here,” said McGonagall. Hagrid exited, fitting his large frame through an opposite door.

They followed McGonagall through the flagged stone floor. There was a drone of voices from a doorway to the right- where the rest of the school was, but Professor McGonagall led the first-years into a smaller chamber, to the left.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” McGonagall said. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house is something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.”

Draco was already dreading this. He sort of half-listened to McGonagall explain the four houses again, the House Cup, etc. When McGonagall left to check if they were ready to start, Draco watched Harry try to nervously flatten his hair.

Draco ran a hand through his, as well. He had quit gelling it back so stupidly in August, and after taking several long looks in the mirror, he preferred it better this way. He didn’t expect Narcissa or Lucius to find it suspicious, as he had only really been doing that for two weeks.  A phase.

“Hey, Draco?” Ron was prodding him. Both him and Harry were staring at him, quite oddly. Draco checked his hair again.

“Yeah?” He replied.

“How d’you suppose were going to be sorted into our houses?” Harry asked, his eyes wide.

Ron added, “Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking.”

“Oh no,” said Draco, cool, calm, and collected, “It’s just a hat. A magical hat decides what house you’ll be in, based on your attributes.”

And then someone screamed.

Draco jumped up and around at once, pulling his wand from his robes, but it was unnecessary, for it was the ghosts of Hogwarts that came to make an appearance.

“Easy, boy!” One of them said.

While Draco tried to calm himself down, his breath coming faster (he hated screaming. He hated screaming), he stowed his wand away and stared up at all of the ghosts. Most of them he knew, like the Fat Friar, Nearly Headless Nick, and the Grey Lady. The Bloody Baron did not make an appearance.

“New students...” one of them was saying, “About to be sorted, I suppose?”

“Hope to see some of you in Hufflepuff!” said the Fat Friar. “My old house, you know.”

Draco swallowed, with embarrassment. He hoped not.

McGonagall soon returned to take the first-years into the hall. They were stopped in a large group a few feet away from the stool, and Draco simply stared at his classmates, who were marveling at the Great Hall. To be honest, the Great Hall just kind of made him sick. It reminded him of all those dead people that were lain and collected there, after being dragged there from various parts of the castle. Murdered.

The Sorting Hat sung his song, and Draco hoped to Merlin that he wouldn’t find out that Draco was a time-traveller. What if he told Dumbledore?

Draco was still a little uneasy of the Hogwarts Headmaster, still deciding whether Dumbledore would be much of a help, or if he’d be a hindrance. The thing Draco was _most_ afraid of was the possibility of Obliviation, because that would cause _so many_ problems.

But it was too late.                                                               

“Abbott, Hannah!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

Draco knew what houses most of his classmates would be sorted into. They all, predictably, got sorted into the same places. He watched as Susan Bones was sorted into Hufflepuff and Terry Boot was sorted into Ravenclaw. He watched Granger almost run to the stool and jam the hat on her head, only to get sorted into Gryffindor, like last time.

Well, there went that idea. If Draco really wanted to get into Gryffindor, then he would have to deal with Granger the entire time. Oh well.

He also would have to deal with Longbottom, seeing as he was sorted there, as well.

And then, Draco’s name was called.

With a little less swagger than he would normally, Draco walked forward and was already wishing as _hard_ as he could for Gryffindor. He wondered if the hat would even give him a chance.

 _“Well, I have clearly sorted you before, Mister Malfoy,”_ said the hat, and Draco was thankful that it hadn’t automatically shouted out “Slytherin.”

 _Yes, you probably have,_ Draco thought wildly, _But not yet. Just put me in Gryffindor, please!_

Draco had said “please”, for perhaps the first time ever in his life. _“Mister Malfoy, is this truly what you want? Slytherin was your home, after all...and if the...oh my.”_ The hat’s voice had taken on a sick tone, as he sorted through Draco’s memories. Images of the war, with deaths, spells flying, and a crumbling Hogwarts was the hat’s reward for all its troubles. Draco wouldn’t have it. He glared at the Slytherin table and shook his head.

 _This will be the outcome of the war,_ Draco thought in his head to the Sorting Hat. _If you don’t put me in a different house this time, this is what will happen!_

The hat’s next response was less than kind. _“This is cheating, Mister Malfoy,”_ The hat warned. _“There is no going back. Very rarely is a wizard given a second chance, for whatever nefarious purposes.”_

Draco took a deep breath. _I am not here for nefarious purposes, I’m here to save you all! Now put me in Gryffindor or I won’t be able to do that!_

The next memory the Sorting Hat found was of its own "death". Being set aflame by Voldemort himself. In his memories, the Dark Lord was declaring, _"There will be no more houses!"_

Draco’s face found a classic smirk, knowing that he'd won.

_“Very well. I wonder what fate will have in store for us all, in...”_

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Victorious, Draco took off the Sorting Hat to find utter silence. He quickly panicked for a second, before realizing that the entire conversation had been in his head and that they were all surprised just because he was a Malfoy in Gryffindor.

Draco ignored this and grinned at Kid Potter and Ron, whose faces were also smiling. They started clapping, and, very slowly, the rest of the hall started to applaud, too. But Draco had done it.

He went to sit next to Lavender Brown, as she was one of the only people who were already sitting at the Gryffindor table that didn’t make him want to go and drown himself in the Black Lake. Or jump out of their dormitory. Or _Avada-Kedavra_ himself. Brown was better than Seamus Finnegan, who was annoying. Although, Draco hadn't actually spoken to her before.

"Potter, Harry!”

Draco sighed, this was taking too long. The hat was lowered onto Harry’s head, and then, the whole ceremony seemed like it had been stopped. How long had Kid Potter been sitting on that stool, again?

Draco was a little worried, but relieved when it finally shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”

And Harry got the loudest cheer of them all. “We got Potter! We got Potter!” The whole of Gryffindor seemed to be shouting.

As he sat down, Draco clapped Harry on the back. “Good job, mate,” he said, grinning.

“You told me so!” Harry said back, his face glowing, “You said we’d get into Gryffindor and we did!”

After that, there were only four people left to be sorted. Dean Thomas also became a Gryffindor, and after that, it was Ron’s turn.

But Draco had nothing to worry about. The hat shouted “GRYFFINDOR!” incredibly loudly and Ron trotted over to the Gryffindor table, his ears red from the cheering.

Draco and Harry congratulated him as well, as Ron settled on the other side of Harry. Draco was simply relieved that everything had worked out. The hat hadn’t automatically put him in Slytherin this time.

Now that he wasn’t worrying about the Sorting Ceremony, Draco could see the high table in full, now. His eye was drawn immediately to his godfather, at the end, to the right. Severus had died in the war. It was indirectly Draco’s fault, which was a fact. Draco looked down before they could make eye-contact.

Directly in the center, in a large gold chair, sat Albus Dumbledore, who was getting to his feet. He was beaming as he said, “Welcome!” Draco had no time to think, he could only stare.

“Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our feast, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!”

He sat back down. _A pair of twinkling blue eyes, a silver beard, a flash of green light..._

_"DO IT, DRACO! NOW!” His aunt Bellatrix shouted in his ear. She stood behind him, her face crazed and hungering for blood. The darkness of the Astronomy Tower..._

_Dumbledore, falling, falling, failing...Draco’s godfather stepping in front, carrying out the task..._

_His failure. Draco’s failure. Dumbledore’s calm voice as he told Draco that he didn’t have to do it, and he could protect him. Draco as he explained in fervor that the Dark Lord would find him. His family. Kill his family._

_Dumbledore, falling, falling, failing..._

Someone was prodding him. Draco snapped to attention at once, blinking and looking around. It felt like he was swimming underwater, and he was trying to hear the voices on the surface. Impossible.

“Draco? Draco!” Kid Potter’s voice filtered through. Draco turned his head to the side, making out the outline of his face.

_Dumbledore, falling, falling, failing..._

Draco wasn’t on the Astronomy Tower. He was in the Great Hall, with Kid Potter and Weasel. Eleven years old. Dumbledore was alive. Dumbledore didn’t know anything. Severus was alive. He didn’t know anything.

Kid Potter was still trying to get his attention. “Are you tired?” Harry asked, putting down his fork. “You haven’t taken anything!”

Draco looked down. His gold plate was empty. But every plate around him was piled with food, roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs.

“Oh,” said Draco, blinking in surprise. “Oh.”

“Haven’t you ever seen a feast before, laddie?” One of the ghosts that were eyeing the food hungrily said.

Draco took a deep breath, “Yes.” To Harry, he said, “Yeah, probably tired. I’ll just...yeah,” he finished, awkwardly.

He took a few servings of peas and carrots before pausing, considering his stomach. Draco didn’t have much of an appetite, especially after all of those flashbacks. He had taken one look at the meat and just thought of blood, and injuries. And he shuddered.

“I haven’t eaten for nearly five hundred years,” Another ghost said, sadly. It was Nearly Headless Nick. “I don’t need to, of course, but one does miss it. I don’t think I’ve introduced myself? Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your service. Resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower.”

Weasley took a bite of his chicken before saying, “I know who you are! My brothers told me about you- you’re Nearly Headless Nick!”

“I would prefer you to call me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-” The ghost began stiffly, but the sandy-haired Seamus Finnegan interrupted.

“Nearly headless? How can you be nearly headless?” Finnegan asked.

While the rest of the Gryffindor first-years were enamored with their house ghost, Draco’s vision took a sweep around the room. He paused for a moment to look at the Slytherin table.

There was one less first-year Slytherin this year. He wondered if his old bed in the dungeons would just remain empty, or if the house elves would just take it away. Of course, he wouldn’t be sleeping in it during his time at Hogwarts, this time.

When nearly everyone around him had eaten as much as they could, the remains of the food faded from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean as before. A moment later, the desserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate eclairs, jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, rice pudding...

Draco helped himself to some ice cream. His mood was a bit spoiled, for some reason that he couldn’t place.

Finnegan was talking. “I’m half-and-half,” Seamus said. _What, are we talking about milk or something?_ Draco thought wryly. The conversation was so mundane, Draco was honestly ready to go to bed.

“...Me dad’s a muggle. Mam didn’t tell him she was a witch ‘til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him.”

The others laughed. Draco didn’t.

“What about you, Neville?” asked Ron.

Draco let his head droop on Kid Potter’s shoulder, who tensed but then kind of relaxed into it. It normally wouldn’t be Draco’s first choice of person to nap on, but he was feeling very, very sleepy. The conversation continued for about five minutes, and just as Draco was about to nod off, Harry jerked violently, as if the kid had been burned.

“Ouch!” Harry clapped a hand to his head. Draco’s eyes were still closed, his first impulse being to whine. But his eyes snapped open in an instant.

“What is it?” asked Draco.

“N-nothing.”

But it didn’t look like it had been nothing. Draco looked closer at Kid Potter’s pupils, which were wide with surprise. But he was trying to calm down.

"Hey, Percy? Who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?” Harry asked one of the older ginger Weasleys: Percy the Prefect.

Percy the Prefect looked pleased that he was asked the question. He took one look at Harry before (slightly pompously) saying, “Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he’s looking so nervous, that’s Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn’t want to- everyone knows he’s after Quirrell’s job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape.”

 _A fair description,_ thought Draco. But this Quirrell bloke- the Defense teacher from his first-year. Why did Draco feel like this was important? He remembered Dumbledore announcing to the entire school that Quirrell had died- oh.

Quirrell was serving the Dark Lord. He was a Death Eater- he had to be. But he died at the end of the year, maybe murdered by the Dark Lord himself? Draco would have to find that out.

He was about to go for another bite of ice cream when suddenly, the desserts, too, disappeared. Draco looked to the High Table, where Dumbledore was getting to his feet again.

“Ahem- just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few short-term notices to give you. First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember as well.”

Draco saw Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes flash in the direction of someone at the Gryffindor Table. He continued, “I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch.”

“And finally,” said Dumbledore, “And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”

Draco heard Kid Potter laugh beside him. Draco let out a chuckle as well, for anything he had faced throughout _his_ years at Hogwarts, well- a “painful death” from Dumbledore would be a welcome comparison.

“He can’t be serious?” Harry muttered.

"Must be,” said Percy the Prefect, frowning, “It’s odd, because he usually gives us a reason why we’re not allowed to go somewhere- the forest’s full of dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he might have told us prefects, at least.”

Draco tilted his head. He didn’t remember much of his first year, other than the being a dick part. Had he been legitimately scared by this threat?

“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!” cried Dumbledore. Draco looked around at the teachers at the table, an amused expression on his face. The staff’s smiles had become rather fixed.

“Everyone pick their favourite tune,” said Dumbledore, “and off we go!”

And Draco bellowed:

           _“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,_

_Teach us something please!_

_Whether we be old and bald_

_Or young with scabby knees,_

_Our heads could do with filling_

_With some interesting stuff,_

_For now they’re bare and full of air,_

_Dead flies and bits of fluff,_

_So teach us things worth knowing,_

_Bring back what we’ve forgot,_

_Just do your best, we’ll do the rest,_

_And learn until our brains all rot.”_

Everybody finished the song at different times, as per the usual with the Hogwarts school song. At last, only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest. Draco was deep in the nostalgia pool.

“Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!”

Draco was beginning to understand where Dumbledore was coming from. It was a lovely thing, to hear the untalented students of Hogwarts singing at the top of their lungs. Even though most were terrible, and everyone always picked their own tune, it gave him a strange, fuzzy feeling inside. And then, it depressed him.

These kids didn’t know what war was like. Not the first-years. Or even the prefects. And this troubled him, greatly. It made Draco wonder, if he was going to do it right.

The Gryffindor first-years followed Percy the Prefect through the chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and up the marble staircase. Draco was so tired and full of some food, but mostly tired. He was still aware, but didn’t bother memorizing the route up to Gryffindor Tower. He had some of an inkling as to where it was, but after all, he would be heading off to the Slytherin dungeons, right now.

A bundle of walking sticks were floating in midair in front of them. Percy took one step forward, they started throwing themselves at him.

“Peeves,” Percy whispered to the first years. Draco rolled his eyes as Percy puffed himself up, only to say clearly, “Peeves, show yourself!”

A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon, answered.

“Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?”

There was a pop, and a little man with wicked, dark eyes and a wide mouth appeared, floating cross-legged in the air, clutching the walking sticks.

“Ooooooooh!” cackled Peeves. “Ickle Firsties! What fun!” He swooped suddenly at them. Draco yawned, and Kid Potter looked at him, startled.

“Go away, Peeves, or the Baron’ll hear about this, I mean it!” barked Percy.

Peeves stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping the walking sticks on Longbottom’s head. Draco heard him zooming away, rattling coats of armor as he passed.

Draco yawned again as Percy said, “You want to watch out for Peeves,” said Percy, as they set off again. “The Bloody Baron’s the only one who can control him, he won’t even listen to us prefects. Here we are.”

At the very end of the corridor hung a portrait of a very fat woman in a pink silk dress.

“Password?” she said.

Draco scoffed. _That was it?_ No wonder Sirius Black broke in around Draco’s third year. The portrait was so incredibly obvious. In the Slytherin dungeons, the door was concealed on a stone wall. You had to know exactly where it was, or else you were out of luck.

“Caput Draconis,” said Percy, and the portrait swung forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. The first-years all scrambled through it- Longbottom needed a leg up- and found themselves in the Gryffindor common room, a cozy, round room, full of squashy armchairs.

This was much more inviting than the Slytherin common room, Draco observed. But it was so _red!_ Almost everything from floor to ceiling was red.

At the top of a spiral staircase- they were obviously in one of the towers- they found their beds at last: six four-posters hung with deep red, velvet curtains. Their trunks had already been brought up. Too tired to talk much, they all pulled on their pajamas and fell into bed.

“Great food, isn’t it?” Ron was muttering to Kid Potter through the hangings. Draco had chosen a bed right between them two. “Get off, Scabbers! He’s chewing my sheets.”

Draco fell asleep right away.


	7. Chapter 7

In the morning, Draco awoke early with a pleasant surprise: he didn’t have any nightmares last night, and if he did, then he didn’t remember them. Draco just hoped it stayed that way: he preferred not waking up screaming and tangled in the bed hangings. Or waking his new dorm-mates, because that would be hard to explain.

Most of this didn’t really hit him until he had his trunk opened up on his bed and saw the Gryffindor robes, ties, and jumpers. He thought he had opened the wrong one, until he remembered.

Draco Malfoy was a Gryffindor. In this timeline, anyway. He would never have to put on another Slytherin tie ever again, he could start over- no one had any expectations of him other than being a selfish brat. And he would certainly change that.

Draco Malfoy, the Gryffindor, would be a brilliant wizard. He would have real friends and be popular, so popular that if it came to it, he would be able to sway the entire house’s opinion on the Dark Lord. Voldemort. He would be an asset to Harry Potter and an ally to Ron Weasley, he would help them defeat Voldemort and then everyone would like him and then-

As Draco pulled on his Gryffindor tie in the dormitory toilets, examining his hair so that it would be perfectly styled (Draco Malfoy the Gryffindor didn’t have that horrible hair gel anymore), he nodded to the little boy in the mirror.

 _I’m going to make things better for you, and all of us,_ thought Draco. He peered back into the dormitory, where five boys were all sleeping, still. He stared at the snoring Longbottom, in the bed closest to the toilets, and snorted. _Well, maybe not Longbottom._ But Draco was only joking.

Five minutes later, Draco was waking up Kid Potter and his Weasel friend. He found it astonishing that Percy Weasley hadn’t shown the first years how to do an alarm clock spell. None of them would ever even make it to breakfast, in this case.

“Wazzup?” Potter muttered as he wiped his eyes, and Draco was now shaking Thomas and Finnegan.

“You’re all going to be late,” said Draco, checking his watch. “It’s half past six. Breakfast starts at seven, and since we don’t know where anything is, we had better get a head start.”

“Why’re you worried about us?” said Dean Thomas, sitting up in bed, stretching.

“Because it’s the first day,” Draco responded, confused. “Don’t you all want to be on time?”

“Oh.”

“Hey, can someone wake up Longbottom?” Draco said, checking his book-bag one last time. He didn’t fancy walking all the way back up to the tower to fetch his books. He quickly snuck a feather-light charm on the bag, when his dorm-mates weren’t looking (concerned with their own trunks). They hadn’t gotten their schedules, yet.

Whispers were following Draco, Ron, and Kid Potter throughout breakfast, and later, the corridors of Hogwarts.

“There, look.”

“Over there!”

“Next to the tall ginger one.”

"Did you see his face?”

_“Did you see his scar?”_

There were some whisperings about Draco, too.

“I don’t trust that little Malfoy kid.”

“A Malfoy, in Gryffindor? That’s never happened before.”

Some people were even tip-toeing and lining up to see Kid Potter on the way to lessons. Draco took the lead after glancing at their time-table: he didn’t feel like having a conversation with Percy the Prefect today and he knew perfectly well where the Transfiguration classroom was. The Gryffindor first years’ first lesson was with Professor McGonagall, the head of their house.

“Does he actually know where we’re going?” Ron muttered to Harry. Draco looked back at them with a neutral expression.

“Do you know where we’re actually going?” said Draco.

“No.”

Draco smiled. “Well, we’re here, now.” He motioned to the almost empty classroom, where Professor McGonagall sat at her desk, glancing up at who had come in.

“Wow.” Harry said, his eyes widening at the classroom. It was a fairly simple wizarding classroom, just as Draco remembered it. But Harry was probably seeing one for the first time, with a self-erasing blackboard, a self-spinning globe, and a few whizzing instruments. The ceilings were high and the desks seemed too big for first-years. Draco all of a sudden felt short.

“Asked a prefect this morning,” lied Draco with confidence, then plopping down in a seat in the second row from the back. Far enough back, but not in the back row. It was easier to hide from McGonagall that way.

Kid Potter settled in beside him, more hesitantly. Weasel sat on the other side of Potter at another desk. At this point, more first-years were beginning to trickle in.

Professor McGonagall, once everyone had found the classroom, wasted no time in giving the new class a talking-to the moment they all sat down.

“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” she said. “Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned.”

Then, she changed her desk into a pig and back again. Draco almost groaned when he realized he wouldn’t be allowed to practice this magic (in seventh year, he had mastered this kind of transfiguration).

Draco participated in taking some “complicated” notes, but they were meaningless to him. Then, they were all given a match and told to turn it into a needle. There, Draco was faced with a conundrum.

Wizards couldn’t purposefully make mistakes once they’d mastered a spell, because bad things could happen. Draco knew exactly how to transfigure that matchstick into a needle: but he didn’t want anyone to be suspicious of him.

Draco waved his wand, but didn’t attempt any magic for the first few goes. Beside him, Kid Potter looked to be trying _really, really_ hard, but nothing seemed to be happening. Weasley just looked constipated.

He turned his attention toward Hermione Granger. As she was sitting in the very front row, he couldn’t quite see her progress. McGonagall was prowling through the rows and checking to see if any of the first-years had accomplished anything. Her stern expression said it all: no first-year was going to _make_ any progress.

 _Little does she know,_ thought Draco. He checked his watch and, when there was only five minutes of class left, transfigured his matchstick into a completely whole needle.

“Class!” said McGonagall, seeing immediately what Draco had done. _Here we go._ “Ten points to Gryffindor, Mister Malfoy. Never in my teaching career has a student shown such prowess! See Mister Malfoy’s needle, how pointy and silver! This is a completed transfiguration, well done.”

Draco smiled. For once, he could beat Mudblood Granger at something!

He forgot to notice her disappointment, however, as he left the classroom with Harry and Ron.

Their next class, Charms, was quick and only discussed theory; Draco didn’t pay much attention. It was sort of refreshing though, to be back in his classes in Hogwarts. Like everything, it brought back memories of simpler times. Times when he wasn’t worried for his life, or for his mother’s life. His family’s social standing and the weight his name carried among the servants of the Dark Lord. The war felt like it had lasted forever. And he was momentarily sprung free.

Sure, History of Magic was still mind-numbing and boring as hell. First-year magic was ridiculously easy. Draco had to see his Uncle Severus glare at his Gryffindor tie every day in Potions, while abusing Harry and constantly quizzing him for answers. Not once did he ever call on Mudblood Granger, who was endearingly pulling an arm work-out every time there was a question. And maybe Quirrellmort was an utter joke, but he was still dangerous. Draco’s first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson had him fearful at first, but once it was made clear that Quirrell had nothing on his father, or Macnair, or his Aunt Bellatrix, Draco grew bored pretty quickly.

The only foe he had to face two weeks into the term were the midnight Astronomy lessons, held in the tower Draco would refuse to step foot in. The Astronomy Tower gave him too many bad memories, it was a wonder that he managed to make it up the stairs with Potter and Weasley the first time.

“Are you okay, Draco?” Harry had a worried look on his face, as the blonde boy became pale and his brain seemed to go elsewhere. Draco was reliving the night in the other timeline, when he almost killed Dumbledore, but-

_A pair of twinkling blue eyes, a silver beard, a flash of green light..._

Draco put a hand on the railing to steady himself. His face had taken on a sheeny pallor, and his cheeks were warm. His knuckles on his right hand were stretched and incredibly white, as he held on to the black railing with his hand.

“I’m fine,” Draco huffed out, insisting on taking another step. Harry and Ron were looking at each other, eyes widening.

“Are you sure?” said Harry, before Ron put in, “You don’t look so good, mate.”

Another moment went by. “Maybe we should take him to hospital,” Harry’s eyes roamed around the stairwell.

“Do we even know where that is?” Ron said, indignantly.

“No,” Draco gasped, “I’ve got to make it to this lesson. It’s our first one!”

_"DO IT, DRACO! NOW!” His aunt Bellatrix shouted in his ear. She stood behind him, her face crazed and hungering for blood. The darkness of the Astronomy Tower..._

Draco’s breath grew shallower. At last, his Slytherin side gave in and he quickly bolted down the steps, as fast as he could. He couldn’t face the Astronomy Tower.

He heard the shouts of Potter and Weasley behind him as he ran. Always running, always Draco. Always failing. “DRACO!”

_Dumbledore, falling, falling, failing...Draco’s godfather stepping in front, carrying out the task..._

“HEY, DRACO!”

“Slow down, mate!”

_His failure. Draco’s failure. Dumbledore’s calm voice as he told Draco that he didn’t have to do it, and he could protect him. Draco as he explained in fervor that the Dark Lord would find him. His family. Kill his family._

The entrance to the Astronomy Tower was on the seventh floor. For a moment, Draco stopped running at the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy, but couldn’t face the Room of Requirement, either.

Draco was truly panicking. In his mind, it was the Astronomy Tower, fight or flight. It didn’t matter that his body was eleven years old or this was a new timeline and he could do whatever he wanted. That night stayed with him. Always.

“Dray! Let up!”

He was being chased.

_Dumbledore, falling, falling, failing..._

Harry and Ron were chasing him. But they didn’t know anything. Nobody knew anything.

Draco had made it to the main foyer of Hogwarts, where dozens of moving staircases met and separated. It was just his unluckiness that there was no staircase there in front of him, because he had to come crashing to a halt, to avoid falling.   

Like Dumbledore.

And there, he vomited.


	8. Chapter 8

Madame Pomfrey, upon meeting Draco for the very first time in this timeline, had considerably less worry lines, looking her actual age instead of years older. When Harry and Ron had brought him in, Draco had been stumbling, pupils dilated and previously ill.

Now, it all seemed so stupid. Draco had been given a calming draught and a good night’s sleep, and was feeling really embarrassed.

“I’m okay, Madame Pomfrey,” said Draco in the morning. “I just needed sleep.”

The Hogwarts mediwitch stared back at him, her lips pursed and her semi-grey hair hanging in a low bun. She was a devout woman, and she must have been pretty in her youth. A heart-shaped face and almond-shaped eyes.

“Well, I don’t intend to see many first-years this term, Mister Malfoy,” said Pomfrey. “It takes a great deal to fully adjust to life at Hogwarts, and there’s always the one first-year that experiences it harder than the rest. I expect that you’re a lot calmer now, hm? One of Severus Snape’s calming draughts can work wonders.”

“Thank you,” said Draco, his cheeks turning pink. “Was that him that...that found us last night?”

 _Found Kid Potter, Weasel, and me after hours on one of the platforms as I was ill on one of the moving steps, suffering an episode? Must have been fun for him,_ Draco thought. He hoped that wouldn’t get back to his mother. He was embarrassed enough as it was.

Always his Uncle Severus to clean up his messes, the messy or the serious kind. Draco cringed as Pomfrey nodded in answer to his question.

"Now Mister Malfoy,” Pomfrey moved closer to the bed, “Your dorm-mates, Mister Potter and Mister Weasley have informed me that you are suffering nightmares as well as your generalized anxiety? It’s not common in pureblooded students but I just ask to wonder, would you be interested in speaking to your head of house, perhaps on a regular schedule? It may be a big help, seeing as your dorm-mates don’t know much about the content of your nightmares, only that you often wake them up screaming.”

Pomfrey’s words sucked all of the air out of the room. _What. The. Fuck?_ This was all news to Draco. Harry and Ron hadn’t told him any of this. A cold wave washed over him, because what if he had said something about the war in a dream? This was bad. He should have tried harder with the silencing charms. He hadn’t tested how long they last, or if they cancelled out within a few hours. Why hadn’t Harry and Ron said anything, if he was waking them up at night? Or Seamus, or Dean, or Longbottom? It was common decency. It was his problem, and his problem to fix. But couldn’t they have bloody pointed it out?

To be honest, Draco felt a bit betrayed. How could they keep something like this from him? _What had he been saying?_ Stuff about the war? The Astronomy Tower? The Dark Lord? His mother getting sent to Azkaban?

“Calm down, Mister Malfoy.”

No. He wouldn’t calm down. She could shove all the potions she wanted down his throat and he would never truly be at rest. Voldemort was out there, and Draco couldn’t even take a damn _astronomy lesson_ at the top of a tower! How was he supposed to help Potter defeat him?

“Mister Malfoy.”

Pomfrey was putting two hands on his shoulders, and since Draco wasn’t immediately reactive to touch, seeing as a wizard’s main weapon of assault was a wand to cast spells with, he accepted this as an anchor to his calming down.

The next week, he found himself in McGonagall’s office, sipping a cup of tea with his Head of House on the other side of the desk. She had a stoic expression on her face and Draco was simply nervous. He would have to make up something to get out of this, knowing that Pomfrey had put McGonagall up to it.

“Mister Malfoy,” McGonagall put down her tea cup and tried what could have been a smile, but ended up sort of halfway. At least it was a start. But smiling back seemed inappropriate in this circumstance.

Draco was getting tired of hearing that name from every professor he came across. _Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy._ Just as they had called his father, when he had walked the halls of Hogwarts. At one point in his life, Draco would have never thought this. He wouldn’t have wholly despised the man and all he did, and he wouldn’t be the damn little first-year with the “anxiety problem” (what even was that?).

He wouldn’t have ended up in McGonagall’s office at all, because once upon a time, Draco Malfoy was no Gryffindor.

“Mister Malfoy, when do you suppose this ah, problem began?” McGonagall approached the topic tentatively. Draco was unable to stop his ears from turning pink.

  _You’re nearly twenty years old, but you’re also eleven,_ thought Draco, to himself. _You can do this._

“A few years ago,” he responded, with defeat. But he didn’t know what else to say, other than that.

“Before you started at Hogwarts?” _Uh oh. McGonagall has her reading glasses on._

“Yes.”

The Transfiguration professor shuffled some essays around her desk, maybe to make things less awkward? But it wasn’t working.

“And the nightmares, did they start at the same time?”

“Um, no. Those started a few years before that.”

Draco suddenly found an interest in McGonagall’s cherry wood desk. He examined every line of the wood-work; it was immaculate.

“...Do you know what triggered them, preliminarily?” The Gryffindor Head of House was full of questions. Questions that Draco couldn’t answer, without telling McGonagall about the war and that he had time-travelled.

“Mm,” Draco stalled, “When mother and father argued.” The excuse was so incredibly lame, but it could work.

McGonagall stared at him, as if she wanted for him to speak more. Draco didn’t.

“Well,” started his professor, “Should you ever have an, er, should we say episode? In one of my classes, you may be excused to the hospital wing for a calming draught.”

And that was that. That was the meeting. He was called for similar ones throughout the day for classes, from nearly every professor of his. All of them wanted to know just about the same thing, but those meetings made him late for classes, as well as Ron and Harry, who waited loyally for him, like lapdogs.

Now, every professor at Hogwarts probably thought of him as the boy with the panic attacks and the nightmares. He had a thought to blame it all on Kid Potter and Weasel, but if Draco were being mature about this, then they were just worried about their new friend. It wasn’t what Draco would have done at eleven years old, but he admired Potter and Weasley for their ability to help him.

It was sort of nice, having friends.

The next day was Saturday. Draco had made it through another week without freaking out over all he had to do before the Dark Lord could be truly dead, and he worked out his problem with the silencing charm. He was applying it too early in the night, which is why it faded, letting the whole dormitory hear about half of his screams.

Realistically, Draco knew that this wasn’t healthy and that he needed to find an alternative to a sleeping potion because then, he wouldn’t have nightmares and wouldn’t need a silencing charm at all.

Then, he could sleep properly, not look so terrible despite sneakily glamouring his dark circles away.

Draco decided this all while staring at his reflection in the mirror at 5:00 in the morning. He was completely ready for the day despite it being this early: a plus was getting in the shower before anyone else.

The rest of his dorm-mates were sleeping in their beds. Draco didn’t much envy them anymore, for their abilities to rest. He wouldn’t trade his future knowledge for anything, knowing that he could do something about what they were all about to face, six years from now: a war.

Settling back down on his bed, he opened a textbook before realizing that he’d completely forgotten about a letter that he had slipped inside it. It was addressed to him in his father’s practiced, neat calligraphy, the parchment still folded neatly and the Malfoy seal stuck to the front.

He hadn’t opened it, or read it. To be honest, he hadn’t thought about it for about a week or two.

Draco had written his parents on his second night at Hogwarts, knowing that they would want to know whether he’d been sorted into Slytherin or not. It was hard for him to write the letter, knowing that he would either get a reply or his parents wouldn’t want anything to do with him at all. 

_Dear Mother and Father,_

_I apologize for not writing last night. The welcoming feast was magnificent, and I was too sleepy to write you._

_My sorting was...unexpected, to say the least. I have not been placed in Slytherin, but rather Gryffindor. I am sorry for disappointing you, father, because I know that this is not what you wanted._

_But the Sorting Hat said I exhibited qualities of Gryffindor House, and that I would prosper there. He said I was courageous, chivalrous, and would do better here, rather than in Slytherin. As such, I have taken the liberty to call Gryffindor my new house and not be bothered that I wasn’t placed in Slytherin._

_I hope you can feel the same. If not, then I will not write you again._

_Love, Draco._

When his eagle owl, Rufus, had delivered him a reply, Draco had slipped the letter into his transfiguration textbook and had forgotten about it. But now, he felt like he had to open it.

Draco quickly thanked Merlin that it wasn’t a howler and, with some hesitation, broke the seal. He read it, slowly and carefully, scanning the words and trying to determine whether it had been a mistake.

 _You have dishonored your ancestors, and ruined my reputation. I am severely disappointed in you, Draco,_ was the ink on the parchment. But there was another slip of thick paper, clearly added to the inside. By his mother, perhaps?

_My Draco,_

_I hope you are having a good term at Hogwarts, so far, and I will not lie to you, your father-_

            There was a slash and the start of a new sentence. 

_It is not good at home. He never expected a Gryffindor for a son and has sent this letter to you in a fit of rage, so I beg you not to take this to mean disownment. You are my son, you will always be my son, and nothing will ever change that._

_Your father is seeking a meeting with your headmaster, but a re-sorting has never been done before at Hogwarts, and I do not expect anything to come from that. I will continue to update you on the situation. I love you, Draco._

_Mother_

Hmm. Draco had not been disowned, but Lucius was “severely disappointed” in him? Maybe it would take a few more trips back to the manor to get him to kick Draco out. At least that was good, because it wasn’t like he had a backup plan for where he was going to live when Lucius inevitably kicks him out. Inevitably, but eventually.

He stuffed the letters in his book-bag, not knowing where else to put them. He then took out his newly-assigned Charms essay to revise, because his dorm-mates were still asleep. He did this until 7:25, when they started to stir.

Draco, Harry, and Ron made their way down to the Great Hall for breakfast, Ron still half-asleep and Harry treading forward, with a yawn. They were becoming quite the trio, but not the Golden Trio, Draco was sure. He wasn’t sure what he had messed up, but Mudblood Granger wasn’t too keen on becoming friends with Harry, nor Ron, not yet.

Now that Draco thought about it, he should really stop calling Granger a mudblood. It wouldn’t take much for that word to come spilling out some day, which would be problematic. To tell the truth, Draco wasn’t sure where his beliefs lay regarding pureblood supremacy anymore. Granger admittedly _was_ the smartest witch in their year, and would probably beat Draco in theoretical work because Draco didn’t care about first-year essays. But he would outshine everyone practically, even though he was cheating.

He would make sure of this.


	9. Chapter 9

Looking back on his first Potions lesson in this timeline, Draco reckoned it had gone alright. After all, it had been a week ago, taking place the day of what had been officially dubbed ‘The Meltdown.’ When he tried to go to his first Astronomy lesson, failed, and ran screaming through the halls of Hogwarts. And that night, they’d met Snape again, only it was Harry and Ron panting and Draco vomiting over the railing of a staircase. Incoming. Oops.

Potions lessons took place down in the dungeons. The dungeons were both familiar to Draco and sickening at the same time. _The dungeons will do._ This was the place that they had put the Slytherins during the Battle. Draco frowned at the floor, remembering this as everyone got settled in their seats.

He was sat next to Harry, Ron was with Finnegan, who was known to cause accidents in Potions. Obviously, their little trio had to be split up eventually.

Snape, like everyone else, began his class with roll call, but this would end once him and the other professors memorised their new students’ names. But he called Draco’s name without emotion, like all the others. When he got to Harry’s name, he paused.

“Harry Potter,” He drawled. “Our new celebrity.”

Draco watched as he dropped the list of names on his desk, his black eyes sweeping the room. At a time, Draco would be used to Snape’s dramatics. But this surprised him because he remembered all of this, but it wasn’t like the teacher he was used to. Cold, emotionless. Carrying on. War. But Snape was only trying to scare these children, to get them to try their best in their first day in class.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art that is potion making,” Snape started his speech, different every year. He spoke with the ability to silence a class of rowdy students, even at a whisper. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will _really_ understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses.”

The class was hanging on to his every word. Draco remained a casual disposition, knowing what to expect from a class as complicated as Potions. But it wasn’t _all that_. Especially at the first-year level.

_“I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory...”_

His memories matched up exactly with how the lesson went. This had made a big impression on Draco the first time around, but what was really memorable was his picking on Harry.

“Potter!” Snape said suddenly. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Beside Draco, Harry was clearly struck dumb. He did not expect to get picked on only his second day of class. In Draco’s mind, he was trying to sort through his many years of Potions classes, and when he finally realised what Snape was asking his friend, they were already on the second question.

Snape was asking for advanced Potions knowledge, that Harry simply didn’t have. It really wasn’t fair. On the other side of Draco, Granger’s hand was shooting up like sparks, here and there, but constantly for every question.

“Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

Harry was looking at Draco for the answer. Draco wasn’t making eye contact, though, trying not to snap at Crabbe, Goyle, and the other Slytherins, who were sniggering. There had been a time when Draco had done that, too.

“Couldn’t open a book before coming, eh, Potter?”

Oh well. Harry could take it. And if he couldn’t, then Ron and Draco could handle the aftermath. Say that Snape’s a bully. How he shouldn’t expect a kid to remember everything in _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi._

But Draco was squirming, watching his new friend squirm. Huh. He’d never felt that way before. Hell, he’d laugh if Crabbe didn’t know the answer. But Harry was different. In this version of events, Draco felt like he had to save him from this impending doom of Snape and zero house points.

The old Potter had been cold. So cold. But Harry wasn’t. He was everything what was good and pure about this new timeline, all wrapped up in a shorter person.

Draco raised his hand. Expectedly, Snape allowed him to speak. “Bezoars are found in the stomachs of goats, sir.”

“Correct.” Snape’s face was emotionless, and he did not dare award points to Gryffindor. “And asphodel and wormwood?”

“They make the Draught of Living Death,” Draco continued, “ _Sir_.”

“Hmm.” Snape’s eyes glittered. “And Potter, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

Harry stared at him, without an answer. Draco jumped in smoothly, “Sir. Seeing as how he doesn’t have the answer, why don’t you try Hermione? She must know, she’s had her hand up the whole time.”

Snape took the bait and listened to him, surprisingly. He turned and allowed Hermione. “Miss Granger.”

“ _Theyarethesameplantandalsogobythenameaconite!”_

She said all this in one breath. Draco raised his eyebrows, but not in surprise.

“Correct. Well, Potter, lucky your fellow students were here to save your after your obvious blunder. Tut- tut, fame clearly isn’t everything. A point from Gryffindor.”

Things didn’t improve much for the Gryffindors as the lesson continued, but Harry wasn’t singled out again. Snape set them all to mixing up a simple potion to cure boils, sweeping around and watching the first-years weigh dried nettles, crush snake fangs, criticizing almost everyone except Draco, of course. And he had Harry for his partner, whom Draco gave the easiest task.

“You can crush the snake fangs,” Draco said, barely looking at their textbook. The cure for boils was painfully easy, and Draco really wanted to show Snape that Harry didn’t deserve the singling out.

When Snape got to their cauldron, he was just about to say something when a cloud of green smoke started spewing out from someone’s potion, in the back. A loud hissing noise followed. Neville had somehow managed to melt Seamus’ cauldron into a twisted blob, typical, and it was now seeping across the stone floor. Another typical incident with Longbottom, always. But this was the first one. Draco was quick to stand on his stool, motioning for Harry and Ron to do the same. It was best not to get holes in their shoes.

“I thought we were supposed to be making a _cure_ for boils,” Draco sniggered, but regretted it at once. Harry stared at him, unamused, then he elbowed him. It was just the kind of comment that the _old_ Draco would make.

“Oops. Not funny. I see that now.” Draco said.

“Idiot boy!” snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion away with a wave of his wand. “I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?”

Their professor whirled around to Draco, Ron, and Harry before seeming to readjust himself. It must have been Draco’s presence, or else Harry would’ve probably gotten the blame. That was a plus, but Draco predicted that it wouldn’t last for long. Snape would get used to his godson being a Gryffindor and start yelling at him like the rest of them. It’s not like his father would care enough to step in, after all.

“Take him to the hospital wing,” Snape spat at Finnegan.

And just like that, the class ended. That had been their first class, however. Draco hoped that this week would be different, now that they’ve had five or six Potions lessons.

When Draco got there, he discovered that they weren’t brewing today, just taking notes. They were handed back their very first essay that had been due a week ago. It had been about the Cure for Boils. Draco saw that there had been a nice ‘O’ written on his own, while Harry’s had been given an ‘Acceptable.’ Obvious favouritism, meet obvious favouritism.

And since they weren’t brewing, nothing of note happened. All was quiet on the Western front, or so Draco liked to joke, because the Slytherins just sat there and wrote quietly, their quills scratching in unison. There was no confrontation of houses.

Their next class was less boring, but still decidedly so. Transfiguration was as slow as ever, they were turning beetles into buttons, now. They also had homework due, only six inches on the history of the incantation. Draco had to find it in his textbook for that one, he knew that incantations in Transfiguration only helped wizards focus their magic. Once they got to the upper-years, they stopped thinking about the _theory_ and started just _doing_ it. Transfiguration was all about visualisation, which was something that they didn’t teach to first-years. Instead, the little kids struggled through their matchsticks, needles, buttons, and beetles. Watching them all suffer bored Draco greatly.

Predictably, Draco beat Mudblood Granger in transfiguring his beetle into a button. He couldn’t really fake being terrible, because deliberate mistakes were dangerous in the magical world. But in Transfiguration, Draco would often try _harder_ in making the button seem off, instead of doing the correct, easy thing.

This worked, for a while, until McGonagall started to notice. She’d lectured him about his technique, before eventually finding out that he was trying harder to fail.

Today, Draco wasn’t lucky enough to escape under the radar. He’d quickly become bored with his button, and meanwhile, Harry’s was still a beetle, scuttling around the desk. It nearly escaped before Ron slammed his hand down on it, and Harry was forced to ask for a new one. When Professor McGonagall came around, she’d caught Draco changing the colours of his button, cycling through the rainbow absentmindedly.

“Mister Malfoy!” She said.

 _Shit._  
              
Nope. Nope, nope, no-pity nope.

This hadn’t been the only occurrence Draco had been caught out- what would she do?

“Do take heed and pay attention.” And then, she gave him a rare smile.

McGonagall had _smiled._ She’d never done that before. Draco straightened up immediately, muttering a “Yes, Professor” and stopped the colour wheel on black.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Draco never believed he would meet a friend he enjoyed spending time with more, but that was Harry Potter. And his irritating ginger weasel of a friend, Ron Weasley. But Ron wasn’t so irritating if Draco could just forget the fact that Ron was mentally eleven years old and Draco was older.

It was easy, sometimes, for Draco to slip into a natural state of immaturity. He hypothesized this to be the case because those feelings and impulses lingered, though his eleven-year-old self’s conscious was no longer there.

The Gryffindors' first flying lesson had been one such occasion.

At breakfast the morning of, Rufus brought Draco a small package of sweets, sent by his mother at home. Obviously, things weren’t going well between them, but Draco almost teared up when he opened it. It was just like old times, when he was in Slytherin.

A barn owl brought Neville Longbottom a small package from his grandmother. He opened it and showed them a glass ball the size of a large marble, which was filled with white smoke.

Draco remembered this, and started to choke on his cornflakes.

“It’s a Remembrall!” Longbottom said. “Gran knows I forget things- this tells you if there’s something you’ve forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this and if it turns red- oh...” His face fell, because the Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet, “...you’ve forgotten something...”

Draco watched Neville try to remember what he’d forgotten. An odd feeling of de-ja vu washed over him as Blaise Zabini, who was passing the Gryffindor table, snatched the Remembrall out of Longbottom’s pudgy hand.

Harry and Ron jumped to their feet. Draco sat quietly, absorbing sensory information. Harry and Ron were clearly half hoping for a reason to fight Zabini, especially after he’d been boasting about near run-ins on a broomstick with muggle helicopters.

But Professor McGonagall, who was better at spotting trouble than any other teacher at Hogwarts, was there immediately.

“Mister Longbottom?”

"Zabini’s got my Remembrall, Professor.”

Coolly, Zabini dropped the device back on the table, flanked by Millicent Bulstrode and Pansy Parkinson. “Just looking,” he said.

At three-thirty that afternoon, Draco, Harry, Ron, and the other Gryffindors hurried down the front steps onto the grounds for their first flying lesson. It was a clear, breezy day, and the grass rippled under their feet as they marched down the sloping lawns toward a smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the forbidden forest, whose trees were swaying darkly in the distance.

Draco shivered, and it wasn’t just because of the breezes.

The Slytherins were already there, and so were twenty broomsticks lying in neat lines on the ground. Draco knew how bad those school brooms really were. He would complain and say he missed his Nimbus 2001 at home, but that broom hadn’t been released in this timeline, yet. Not far in the future, yet, though.

But Draco would never play Quidditch again- he wasn’t in Slytherin, so Lucius would never buy his way onto the team. And Harry would become Seeker for Gryffindor, just like he had earlier, leaving no space for Draco.

He stared forlornly at the old brooms with the twigs sticking out at odd angles. Madam Hooch eventually arrived, and with her barking orders, the first years shuffled into two lines.

Draco’s broom didn’t look _so_ bad, but the handle looked like it had been chewed on by a creature of some kind.

“Stick out your right hand over your broom,” called Madam Hooch at the front, “and say ‘Up!’”

“UP!” everyone shouted.

Draco’s broom jumped into his hand at once, but it was one of the few that did. Harry’s did beside him, and Ron’s had smacked him in the face. Draco laughed, but Ron simply covered his nose and scowled at Draco.

“Up! Up!” The rest of the first-years were yelling. Hermione Granger’s was still rolling around on the ground, and Longbottom’s hadn’t moved at all. He’d also gone particularly purple in the face.

Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end, and walked up and down the rows. This time, Draco wasn’t corrected for his grip. He gained a small victory for that.

“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard,” said Madam Hooch. “Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle- three- two-”

But Neville Longbottom, the chump, had pushed off hard before the whistle touched Madam Hooch’s lips.

Now, Draco assumed that watching this over again would be just as funny as what happened the first time, but he was wrong. This was just depressing.

“Come back boy!” Hooch shouted, but Neville was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle- twelve feet- twenty feet. Draco saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and-

_Falling. She stood behind him, her face crazed and hungering for blood. The darkness of the Astronomy Tower... “DO IT, DRACO! NOW!”_

_Dumbledore, falling, falling, failing..._

There was a thud and a nasty crack. Neville lay face-down on the ground in a heap.

_Dumbledore, falling, falling, failing..._

Harry tugged on his arm. “Hey, are you okay?”

Draco blinked. Hooch was leading Longbottom off to the hospital wing already, and slowly, his senses came back to him. Laughter. He could hear laughter.

“Look,” pointed Draco at the opposite end of the field. Harry turned.

“It’s that stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him,” Zabini and the other Slytherins were tossing around Neville’s Remembrall, just like Draco remembered doing in his own memory.

Harry was quick to stride over to the Slytherins. “Give it here,” he said quietly, with Draco and Ron behind him.

“Hmm. No.” Zabini said, a smirk on his face that could really rival Draco’s. “I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find. How about up a tree?”

“Give it here!” Harry yelled, but Zabini was leaping on one of the school broomsticks and flying pretty well. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak he called, “Come and get it, Potter!”

Draco could only watch as Harry grabbed a broom.

“No!” shouted Granger, butting in as always. “Madam Hooch told us not to move- you’ll get us all into trouble.”

Draco didn’t even need to open his mouth to shut her up- Harry ignored her anyway. He mounted the broom and kicked off against the ground, and up, up he soared. There were gasps of girls and an admiring whoop from Ron.

Draco leaned back, watching the confrontation up in the air. Zabini, clearly quite confident on a broom, was stunned as Harry turned his broomstick sharply to face him in midair. The first-years squinted in the sun to see the figures move back and forth, taunting each other.

“Give it here,” Harry was yelling, “or I’ll knock you off that broom!”

Draco couldn’t hear Zabini’s response, but he guessed at what it would be. Then, he watched Zabini throw the Remembrall high into the air and watched it streak back toward the ground.

Harry immediately fell into a dive. He leaned forward and pointed his broom handle down- next second he was gathering speed, students on the ground yelling and screaming, some out of fear, some out of support.

Draco knew that the dive would be successful. He’d seen it before. Harry caught the Remembrall a foot from the ground, just in time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently onto the grass with the sphere clutched safely in his fist, and an energized grin on his face. Ron and Draco ran over to meet him, Ron clapping his back and shouting, “Brilliant!”

But it couldn’t last.

“HARRY POTTER!”

Professor McGonagall was running toward them.

“Never- in all my time at Hogwarts-” She was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, “-how dare you- might have broken your neck-”

“It wasn’t his fault, Professor-”

“Be quiet, Miss Patil-”

“But Zabini-”

“That’s enough, Mister Malfoy. Potter, follow me, now.”

And Harry was led away by McGonagall, but Draco knew that he would be fine. He was the youngest Seeker in a century, after all. At dinner, his belief was confirmed.

“You’re joking.”

Harry had just finished telling Ron and Draco what had happened when he’d let the grounds with Professor McGonagall. Ron had a piece of steak and kidney pie halfway to his mouth, but he’d forgotten all about it.

“Seeker?” he said. “But first-years never- you must be the youngest house player in about-”

“-a century,” said Draco, pretending to act surprised, “Good on you, mate.”

Ron was so amazed, so impressed, he just sat and gaped at Harry.

“I start training next week,” said Harry. “Only don’t tell anyone, Wood wants to keep it a secret.”

Fred and George Weasley now came into the hall, spotted Harry, and hurried over.

“Well done,” said George in a low voice. “Wood told us. We’re on the team too- Beaters.”

“I tell you, we’re going to win that Quidditch Cup for sure this year,” said Fred. “We haven’t won since Charlie left, but this year’s team is going to be brilliant. You must be good, Harry, Wood was almost skipping when he told us.”

“Anyway, we’ve got to go, Lee Jordan reckons he’s found a new secret passageway out of the school.”

“Bet it’s that one behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy that we found in our first week. See you. Alright, Malfoy?”

Draco jumped, hearing that damned surname. He really hated it. “Alright,” he responded, and the twins left.

“What’s wrong?” asked Harry, shoveling pie into his mouth over the excitement of the afternoon.

Draco groaned. “I just wish everyone would call me _Draco._ It’s hardly a challenge. I positively loath hearing ‘Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy’ all the time.”

“Oh.”

“I wish I could change it,” scowled Draco. “I’m not my father. But y’know, for that to happen, I’d have to be friends with _everyone_. I mean, you both call me Draco, but- eh-”

“You hate everything,” said Ron and Harry together, “We know.”

Draco focused on cutting his chicken up. “When did I say that?”

“Oh, you know. Almost every time you sit down in the common room and declare ‘I hate everything.’” Harry smartly replied.

Draco did do that a lot, but it was mostly impulsive and he didn’t mean anything by it. He mostly said it when he had a lot of homework.

“But that’s just me complaining,” said Draco, “I create a lot of my own problems. Which isn’t ideal, I should just shut up- yeah.”

They lapsed into silence. But no more than a moment passed when someone far less welcome turned up: Blaise, flanked by Bulstrode and Parkinson.

“Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting on the train back to the Muggles?”

“You’re a lot braver now that you’re back on the ground and you’ve got your little friends with you,” said Harry coolly. There was of course nothing at all little about Millicent or friendly about Pansy, but as the High Table was full of teachers, neither of them could do more than crack their knuckles and scowl.

Draco had preferred his own choice of Crabbe and Goyle over the girls, but maybe Zabini actually needed slightly more intelligent conversation to survive. Even if Millicent was a bit sullen and Pansy was an annoying cow.

“Blaise could take you any time on his own,” Pansy said, sneering.

“Oh yeah?” Draco retaliated, “How about tonight? Wizard’s duel? Wands only, of course.”

He remembered this little trick, and suspected that Zabini would do the same thing. So they wouldn’t be going.

“Of course,” Zabini grinned, “I’ve been waiting to show you your place. I suppose blood-traitors support blood-traitors, after all. Weasley must be your second.”

“As a matter of fact, he is,” said Draco, airily. “He has a killer bat-bogey hex, I’m not sure you want to risk it.”

Or was that the Weaselette? Draco couldn’t remember. 

“Whatever,” said Zabini, not knowing that Draco had just lied about Ron Weasley knowing a sixth-year spell. “I’m only interested in challenging Potter, anyway. Crabbe’s my second, I doubt it’ll come to that. Midnight all right? We’ll meet you in the trophy room; that’s always unlocked.”

When Blaise had gone, Ron and Harry and Draco looked at each other.

“Sorry, but what's a Wizard’s duel?” asked Harry.


	11. Chapter 11

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted the three of them. It was Granger, butting in obnoxiously, as she always does.

Draco, Harry, and Ron turned to look at her. Ron was the first to clash back, though.

“Can’t a person eat in this place in peace?” said Ron.

Draco watched the mudblood ignore Ron and turn to him. Draco normally would have been worried, he remembered the Golden Trio being thick as thieves- in the old timeline of course, when they had been at school. He remembered the Weasel and Mudblood Granger worshipping Saint Potter, never leaving his side. But Granger and Ron in this new version of events didn’t even seem to like each other. Was that Draco’s doing? Was that first meeting on the train supposed to go differently?

Whatever Draco’s part in this screw up, it didn’t have to mean anything. Granger’s influence on Saint Potter in the old timeline was obvious. She was the brains of the operation, for nearly all of their adventures. But Draco had foresight, and it didn’t matter if Granger was a part of the group. He could serve them just as well.

“I couldn’t help overhearing what you and Zabini were saying-”

“Hmm?” Draco snapped out of it, bored. Granger was _still_ talking.

“-and you mustn’t go wandering around the school at night, think of the points you’ll lose Gryffindor if you’re caught, and you’re bound to be. It’s really very selfish of you.”

“It's really none of your business, Granger,” said Draco.

“So good-bye,” said Ron.

All the same, it wasn’t what you’d call the perfect end to the day, Draco thought, as he lay awake much later listening to Ron and Harry falling asleep (Neville wasn’t back from the hospital wing). He’d spent all evening trying to convince Harry that Zabini didn’t _really_ want to duel them, only get them caught out of bed at night by Filch.

“It’s exactly what I would do!” He’d said, the other boys not knowing that that was the truth. And Draco had done it.

Ron kept trying to give Harry defense strategies, like “If he tries to curse you, you’d better dodge it, because I can’t remember how to block them.” Draco had snorted and laughed, Weasley at eleven years of age was just so _stupid._

But then, Ron’s stupidity had scared him. If Draco failed (and he wasn’t exactly confident about his plan), then these kids, these _little kids_ would be facing a _war_. And if that wasn’t depressing enough, Draco hadn’t even managed to convince Harry to not go and face Zabini. Harry was doing this because it was his big chance to beat Blaise face-to-face. He couldn’t miss it.

“Half-past eleven,” Ron muttered at last, “we’d better go.”

They pulled on their bathrobes, picked up their wands, and crept across the tower room, down the spiral staircase, and into the Gryffindor common room. A few embers were still glowing in the fireplace, turning all the armchairs into hunched black shadows. Draco shivered, convincing himself he wasn’t afraid of the dark.

They had almost reached the portrait hole when a voice spoke from the chair nearest them, “I can’t believe you’re going to do this, Harry.”

A lamp flickered on. It was Hermione Granger wearing a pink bathrobe and a frown. _Typical of prepubescent Granger._

“You!” said Ron furiously. “Go back to bed!”

“I almost told your brother,” Hermione snapped, “Percy- he’s a prefect, he’d put a stop to this.”

Draco couldn’t believe anyone could be so interfering.

“So we’re doing this,” he said to Ron, acting as if she wasn’t there, “come on, let’s go.” He pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady and climbed through the hole.

Granger wasn’t going to give up that easily. She followed Ron through the portrait hole, hissing at them like an angry goose.

“Don’t you care about Gryffindor, do you only care about yourselves, I don’t want Slytherin to win the House Cup, and you’ll lose all the points I got from Professor McGonagall for knowing Switching Spells.”

“Go away.”

To be frank, Draco earned more points than her for his practical work, not regurgitated textbook answers.

“All right, but I warned you, you just remember what I said when you’re on the train home tomorrow, you’re so-”

But what they were, they didn’t find out. The Mudblood had turned to the portrait of the Fat Lady to get back inside and found herself facing an empty painting. The Fat Lady had gone on a nighttime visit and Hermione was locked out of Gryffindor Tower.

“Now what am I going to do?” she asked shrilly.

“That’s your problem,” said Ron. “We’ve got to go, we’re going to be late.”

They hadn’t even reached the end of the corridor when Granger caught up with them.

“I’m coming with you,” she said.

“You are not.”

“D’you think I’m going to stand out here and wait for Filch to catch me? If he finds all three of us I’ll tell him the truth, that I was trying to stop you, and you can back me up.”

Draco thought that they’d have better luck with McGonagall than Filch, she was still half-convinced he was about to break.

“You’ve got some nerve-” said Draco loudly.

“Shut up, both of you!” said Harry sharply. “I heard something.”

It was a sort of snuffling.

“Mrs. Norris?” breathed Draco, squinting through the dark.

It wasn’t Mrs. Norris. It was Neville. He was curled up on the floor, fast asleep, but jerked suddenly awake as they crept nearer.

“Thank goodness you found me! I’ve been out here for hours, I couldn’t remember the new password to get into bed.”

“Keep your voice down, Neville. The password’s ‘Pig snout’ but it won’t help you now, the Fat Lady’s gone off somewhere.”

“How’s your arm?” said Harry.

“Fine,” said Neville, showing them. “Madam Pomfrey mended it in about a minute.

“Good- well, look, Neville, we’ve got to be somewhere, we’ll see you later-”

“Don’t leave me!” said Neville, scrambling to his feet, “I don’t want to stay here alone, the Bloody Baron’s been past twice already.”

Draco could empathize with Longbottom, for once. He didn’t fancy being stuck outside the portrait hole, either.

Ron looked at his watch and then glared furiously at Hermione and Neville.

“If either of you get us caught, I’ll never rest until I’ve learned that Curse of the Bogies Quirrell told us about, and used it on you.

Granger opened her mouth, perhaps to tell Ron exactly how to use Curse of the Bogies, but Harry hissed at her to be quiet and beckoned them all forward.

They flitted along corridors striped with bars on moonlight from the high windows. At every turn Draco expected to run into Flich or Mrs. Norris, but they were lucky. They sped up a staircase to the third floor and tiptoed toward the trophy room.

Zabini nor the girls were there yet. The crystal trophy cases glimmered where the moonlight caught them. Cups, shields, plates, and statues winked sliver and gold in the darkness. They edged along the walls, keeping their eyes on the doors at either end of the room. Draco took out his wand just to be safe. The minutes crept by.

“He’s late, maybe he’s chickened out,” Ron whispered.

“Of course, he’s chickened out! He was never planning to come in the first place!” Draco turned on him. But he froze when he heard the next voice.

"Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a corner.”

It was Filch speaking to Mrs. Norris. Horror-struck, Draco waved madly at the other three to follow him as quickly as possible; they scurried silently toward the door, away from Filch’s voice. Neville’s robes had barely whipped around the corner when they heard Filch enter the trophy room.

“They’re in here somewhere,” they heard him mutter, “probably hiding.”

“This way!” Draco mouthed to the others and, petrified, they began to creep down a long gallery full of suits of armor. They could hear Filch getting nearer. Neville suddenly let out a frightened squeak and broke into a run- he tripped, grabbed Ron around the waist, and the pair of them toppled right into a suit of armor.

The clanging and crashing were enough to wake the whole castle.

Draco stood there, frozen, as Harry shouted, “RUN!”

The five of them sprinted down the gallery, not looking back to see whether Filch was following- they swung around the doorpost and galloped down one corridor then another, Draco in the lead, without any idea where they were or where they were going- they ripped through a tapestry and found themselves in a hidden passageway, hurtled along it and came out near their Charms classroom, which they knew was miles from the trophy room.

“I think we’ve lost him,” Harry panted, leaning against the cold wall and wiping his forehead. Neville was bent double, wheezing and spluttering.

Draco had never hated anything so much. He was, annoyingly, on edge, his eyes darting around, focusing on the corners of the room.

“I-told-you,” Granger was gasping, clutching at the stich in her chest, “I-told-you.”

“We’ve got to get back to Gryffindor Tower,” said Ron, “Quickly as possible.”

“Zabini tricked you,” Granger said as Draco let them take the lead, “You realise that, don’t you? He was never going to meet you- Filch knew someone was going to be in the trophy room, Zabini must have tipped him off.”

Draco knew this, of course. He scowled in the darkness. No one could see it.

“Let’s g-go,” he said, his voice both stuttering and annoyingly high in pitch. He felt unnaturally warm and unnaturally cold at the same time, almost as if it were the opposite of a ghost passing through him.      

Going wasn’t that simple. They hadn’t gone more than a dozen paces when a doorknob rattled and something came shooting out of a classroom right in front of them.

It was Peeves. He caught sight of them and gave a squeal of delight.

“Shut up, Peeves- please- you’ll get us thrown out.”

Peeves cackled.

“Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut, tut, tut. Naughty, naughty, you’ll get caughty.”

“Not if you don’t give us away, Peeves, please.”

“Should tell Filch, I should,” said Peeves in a saintly voice, but his eyes glittered wickedly. “It’s for your own good, you know.”

“Get out of the way,” said Ron, taking a swipe at Peeves- this was a big mistake.

“STUDENTS OUT OF BED!” Peeves bellowed, “STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN CHARMS CORRIDOR!”

Ducking under Peeves, they ran for their lives, right to the end of the corridor where they slammed into a door- and it was locked.

"This is it!” Ron moaned, and they pushed helplessly at the door, “We’re done for! This is the end!”

Draco could hear footsteps. “Move,” he instructed, brandishing his wand. He tapped the lock, it clicked, and the door swung open- they piled through it, shut it quickly, and pressed their ears against it, listening.

“Which way did they go, Peeves?” Filch was saying. “Quick, tell me.”

“Say ‘please.’”

“Don’t mess with me, Peeves now where did they go?”

“Shan’t say nothing if you don’t say please,” said Peeves in his annoying singsong voice.

“All right- please.”

“NOTHING! Ha haa! Told you I wouldn’t say nothing if you don’t say please! Ha ha! Haaaaa!” And they heard the sound of Peeves whooshing away and Filch cursing in rage.

“He thinks this door is locked,” Harry whispered, “I think we’ll be okay- get off, Neville! What, Draco?” For Neville had been tugging on the sleeve of Harry’s bathrobe for the last minute, and Draco was making violent hand gestures to turn around.

The rest of them turned around- and saw, quite clearly, what. For a moment, they were sure they’d walked into a nightmare- this was too much, on top of everything that had happened so far.

They weren’t in a room, as they’d supposed. They were in a corridor. The forbidden corridor on the third floor. The one Draco heard about at the sorting feast and had entirely forgotten about why it had been forbidden in his first year.

They were looking straight into the eyes of a monstrous dog, a dog that filled the whole space between ceiling and floor. It had three heads. Three pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching and quivering in their direction; three drooling mouths, saliva hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs.

It was standing quite still, all six eyes staring at them, and Draco knew that the only reason they weren’t already dead was that their sudden appearance had taken it by surprise, but it was quickly getting over that, there was no mistaking what those thunderous growls meant.

Draco and Harry both tried to find the doorknob- between Filch and death, he’d take Filch.

They fell backward- Harry slammed the door shut, and they ran, they almost flew, back down the corridor. Filch must have hurried off to look for them somewhere else, because they didn’t see him anywhere, but they hardly cared- all they wanted to do was put as much space as possible between them and that monster. They didn’t stop running until they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady on the seventh floor.

“Where on earth have you all been?” she asked, looking at their bathrobes hanging off their shoulders and their flushed, sweaty faces.

“Never mind that- pig snout, pig snout,” panted Harry, and the portrait swung forward. They scrambled into the common room and collapsed, trembling, into armchairs.

It was awhile before any of them said anything. Neville, indeed, looked as if he’d never speak again.

“What do you think they’re doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?” said Ron finally. “If any dog needs exercise, that one does.”

Granger had got both her breath and her bad temper back again.

“You don’t use your eyes, any of you, do you?” she snapped. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?”

“The floor?” Harry suggested. “I wasn’t looking at its feet, I was too busy with its heads.”

“No, not the floor,” Draco said, still struggling to find himself amongst the whirligigs swirling in his mind. He was trembling, he hadn’t experienced a scare like that in so long. If he’d been expecting it, that was one thing, but Draco had gone on in all of his years at Hogwarts without knowing what was behind that door. “It was standing on a trapdoor. I think it’s guarding something.”

For once, Granger was making him think. She was standing up and glaring at them. “Well. I hope you’re pleased with yourselves. We could have all been killed. Or worse. Expelled!”

She left without saying anything else. Ron stared after her, his mouth open. Draco was just tired.

“You’d think we dragged her along, wouldn’t you?” said Ron.


	12. Chapter 12

Draco saw Blaise Zabini the next morning at breakfast, not believing that they were all still at Hogwarts the next day, looking tired but perfectly cheerful. Indeed, by the next morning, Harry and Ron thought that meeting the three-headed dog had been an excellent adventure, and they were quite keen to have another one. _Just you wait,_ thought Draco.

In the meantime, Harry filled both Draco and Ron in about a package that seemed to have been moved from Gringotts to Hogwarts, and they spent a lot of time wondering what could possibly need such heavy protection.

“It’s either really valuable or really dangerous,” said Ron.

“Or both,” said Draco.

But as they all knew for sure about the mysterious object was that it was about two inches long, they didn’t have much chance of guessing what it was without further clues.

Neither Longbottom nor Granger showed the slightest interest in what lay underneath the dog and the trapdoor. All Neville cared about was never going near the dog again.

Granger was now refusing to speak to Harry, Ron, and Draco, but she was such a bossy know-it-all, Draco just saw this as an added bonus. All they really wanted now was a way of getting back at Zabini, and to their great delight, just such a thing arrived in the mail about a week later.

As the owls flooded into the Great Hall as usual, everyone’s attention was caught at once by a long, thin package carried by six large screech owls. Draco was less interested than everybody else in seeing what was in this large parcel, but his expression grew mild when the owls soared down and dropped it right in front of Harry, knocking his bacon on the floor. They had hardly fluttered out of the way when another owl dropped a letter on top of the parcel.

Draco read over Harry’s shoulder as he ripped open the letter first. It said: “DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE. It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I don’t want everybody knowing you’ve got a broomstick or they’ll all want one. Oliver Wood will meet you tonight on the Quidditch Pitch at seven o’clock for your first training session. Professor M. McGonagall.”

“Hmm.” Draco thought that the letter was rather casual for Professor McGonagall, she must have been really excited to finally have a seeker for Gryffindor that was actually good.

“A Nimbus Two Thousand!” Ron moaned enviously. “I’ve never even touched one.”

 _Merlin, Weasley’s poor,_ was Draco’s first thought. But then he realised that wasn’t very nice. And with that realisation came a smile. He was getting better! He wasn’t as much of a peevish dick as he thought himself as. But he still had a long way to go.

They left the hall quickly, wanting to unwrap the broomstick in private before their first class, but halfway across the entrance hall they found the way upstairs barred by Bulstrode and Parkinson, who was examining her nails. Millicent seized the package and felt it.

“That’s a broomstick,” said Millicent. Her voice was unnaturally soft, despite her large size. “You’ll be in for it this time, Potter, first years aren’t allowed them.”

Zabini took the package, too, and grinned ferally.

Ron couldn’t resist it.

            “It’s not any old broomstick,” he said, “it’s a Nimbus Two Thousand. What did you say you’ve got at home, Zabini, a Comet Two Sixty? Comets look flashy, but they’re not in the same league as the Nimbus.”

“What would you know about it, Weasley, you couldn’t afford half the handle,” Zabini snapped back. “I suppose you and your brothers have to save up twig by twig.”

Before Ron could answer, Professor Flitwick appeared at Zabini’s elbow.

“Not arguing, I hope, boys?” he squeaked.

“Potters been sent a broomstick, Professor,” said Zabini quickly.

“Yes, yes, that’s right,” said Professor Flitwick, beaming at Harry. “Professor McGonagall told me all about the special circumstances, Potter. And what model is it?”           

“A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir,” said Harry, fighting not to laugh at the look of horror on Zabini’s face. “And it’s really thanks to Zabini here that I’ve got it,” he added.

Harry, Ron, and Draco headed upstairs, smothering their laughter at Zabini’s obvious rage and confusion. Draco really enjoyed being on the other side of things, he was cringing along with his laughter.

“Well, it’s true,” Harry chortled as they reached the top of the marble staircase, “If he hadn’t stolen Neville’s Remembrall I wouldn’t be on the team...”

“So I suppose you think that’s a reward for breaking the rules?” came an angry voice from just behind them. Mudblood Granger was stomping up the stairs, looking disapprovingly at the package under Harry’s arm.

“I thought you weren’t speaking to us?” said Harry.

“Yes, don’t stop now,” said Ron, “it’s doing us so much good.”

Granger marched away with her nose in the air.

On Halloween morning, they woke to the delicious smell of baking pumpkin wafting through the corridors. Even better, Professor Flitwick announced in Charms that he thought they were ready to start making objects fly, something they all had been dying to try since they’d seen him make Neville’s toad zoom around the classroom. At least, Harry and Ron were excited, Draco had been bored for months and was going to be bored in all of his classes for a very long time.

He often found it difficult to stay under the radar, but (dare he say it) Granger was helping a lot. Draco would sometimes wait until she’d gotten the spell before he tried doing it by himself. Although he didn’t really mind looking like a prodigy.

Professor Flitwick put them in partners to practice. Draco had tried to partner up with Harry, but he was unsuccessful. Instead, he was put with Granger, and Harry was put with Seamus Finnigan.

It was hard to tell whether Draco or Hermione was angrier about this. She hadn’t spoken to either one of the boys since the day Harry’s broomstick had arrived.

“Now, don’t forget that nice wrist movement we’ve been practicing!” squeaked Professor Flitwick, perched on top of his pile of books as usual. “Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too- never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f’ and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest.”

Draco watched them all struggle, as per usual. Only this time, his problem was that he was paired with Granger. He couldn’t just watch them.

Both of them sat there, waiting for the other to begin. Granger gave him the side eye, picked up her wand as to say “I’ll go” with a definite amount of haughtiness.

At the next table, Harry and Seamus had started, but the feather that they were supposed to be sending skyward just sat there on the desktop. Seamus got so impatient that he prodded it with his wand and set fire to it- Harry had to put it out with his hat.

Draco watched them for a moment, amused, until Granger interrupted. “Are you going to be sitting there all day, or am I going to have to cast the spell for you?”

His eyes moved back over the Mudblood, glancing around as if she were unimportant. “Wingardium Leviosa.”

Draco’s first attempt was an obvious fake, he wasn’t even trying to make the feather fly. But the words were pronounced correctly. He had no intent behind his wand movements.

“Go on,” prompted Hermione, bossily.

“Wingardium Leviosa.”

Again, as per his intent, nothing happened.

Granger tried again, but failed to make it work. Draco chuckled at her marginal attempt. She glared back, and he smirked.

“Your go.” She said, annoyance in her words.

“Wingardium Leviosa.” This time, the feather rose off the desk and hovered about four feet above their heads.

“Oh, well done!” cried Professor Flitwick, clapping. “Everyone see here, Mister Malfoy’s done it!”

Draco could practically see Granger’s teeth grinding. She tried once more, and got her feather to float. Then, all they had to do was sit there until the end of class. They did this silently.

With five minutes left to go, Draco was shocked to find Granger standing up with her hands on the desk. “What is wrong with you?”

She exited in tears. Draco could barely figure out what he’d done wrong when Ron and Harry met him at the door.

“It’s no wonder no one can stand her,” Ron said to Draco, “She’s a nightmare, honestly.”

“I don’t even know what I did, and I don’t care,” muttered Draco. “But yeah, I guess.”

“I mean, no one even likes her,” continued Ron, “and then she runs out and says that stuff to you?”

Draco really had nothing else to offer but “crazy girls.”

“Right.”

Granger didn’t turn up for the next class and wasn’t seen all afternoon. On their way down the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, Draco, Ron, and Harry overheard Parvarti Patil telling her friend Lavender that Hermione was crying in the girls’ toilets and wanted to be left alone. Draco felt a little more awkward at this, but a moment later they had entered the Great Hall, where the Halloween decorations put Hermione out of their minds.

A thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and ceiling while a thousand more swooped over the table in low black clouds, making the candles in the pumpkins stutter. The feast appeared suddenly on the golden plates, as it had at the start-of-term banquet.

Draco was just helping himself to a baked potato when something he remembered happening the first time happened- Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the hall, his turban askew and terror on his face. Everyone stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore’s chair, slumped against the table, and gasped, “Troll- in the dungeons, thought you ought to know.”

He then sank to the floor in a dead faint.

There was an uproar. It took several purple firecrackers exploding from the end of Professor Dumbledore’s wand to bring silence.

“Prefects,” he rumbled, “lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately!”

Percy Weasley was in his element.

“Follow me! Stick together, first years! No need to fear the troll if you follow my orders! Stay close behind me, now. Make way, first years coming through! Excuse me, I’m a prefect!”

“How could a troll get in?” Harry asked as they climbed the stairs.

“Don’t ask me, they’re supposed to be really stupid,” said Ron. “Maybe Peeves let it in for a Halloween joke.”

They passed different groups of people hurrying in different directions. As they jostled their way through a crowd of confused Hufflepuffs, Harry suddenly grabbed Draco’s arm.

“I’ve just thought- Hermione.”

“What about her?”

“She doesn’t know about the troll.”

Draco bit his lip.

“Oh, all right,” He said.

Ducking down, they joined the Hufflepuffs going the other way, slipped down a deserted side corridor, and hurried off toward the girls’ bathroom. They had just turned the corner when they heard quick footsteps behind them.

“Percy!” hissed Ron, pulling Harry and Draco behind a large stone griffin.

Peering around it, however, they saw not Percy, but Snape. He crossed the corridor and disappeared from view.

“What’s he doing?” Harry whispered. “Why isn’t he down in the dungeons with the rest of the teachers?”

“Search me.”

Quietly as possible, they crept along the next corridor after Snape’s fading footsteps.

“He’s heading for the third floor,” Draco said, but Ron held up his hand.

“Can you smell something?”

Draco sniffed and a foul stench reached his nostrils, a mixture of old socks and the kind of public toilet no one seems to clean.

And then they heard it- a low grunting, and the shuffling footfalls of gigantic feet. Ron pointed- at the end of a passage to the left, something huge was moving toward them. They shrank into the shadows and watched as it emerged into a patch of moonlight.

It was a horrible sight. Twelve feet tall, its skin was a dull, granite grey, its great lumpy body like a boulder with its small bald head perched on top like a coconut. It had short legs thick as tree trunks with flat, horny feet. The smell coming from it was incredible. It was holding a huge wooden club, which dragged along the floor because its arms were so long.

The troll stopped next to a doorway and peered inside. It waggled its long ears, making up its tiny mind, then slouched slowly into the room.

“The key’s in the lock,” Harry muttered. “We could lock it in.”

“Good idea,” said Draco nervously.

They edged toward the open door, mouths dry, praying the troll wasn’t about to come out of it. With one great leap, Harry managed to grab the key, slam the door, and lock it.

“Yes!”

Flushed with their victory, they started to run back up the passage, but as they reached the corner they heard something that made their hearts stop- a high, petrified scream- and it was coming from the chamber they’d just chained up.


	13. Chapter 13

It was the last thing they wanted to do, but what choice did they have? Wheeling around, they sprinted back to the door and turned the key, fumbling in their panic. Harry pulled the door open and they ran inside.

Hermione Granger was shrinking against the wall opposite, looking as if she was about to faint. The troll was advancing on her, knocking the sinks off the walls as it went.

“Confuse it!” Harry said desperately to Ron, and, seizing a tap, he threw it as hard as he could against the wall.

The troll stopped a few feet from Hermione. It lumbered around, blinking stupidly, to see what had made the noise. Its mean little eyes saw Harry. It hesitated, then made for Draco instead, lifting its club as it went.

“Oy, pea-brain!” yelled Ron from the other side of the chamber, and he threw a metal pipe at it. The troll didn’t even seem to notice the pipe hitting its shoulder, but it heard the yell and paused again, turning its ugly snout toward Ron instead.

Draco was given a few seconds to work out a plan, while Harry was racing at Granger and yelling at her to get away. But Granger, like Draco, was frozen, mouths open with terror.

The shouting and the echoes seemed to be driving the troll berserk. It roared again and started toward Ron, who was nearest and had no way to escape.

Draco saw that Ron was being cornered and shot a powerful cutting curse at the troll’s back. Its blood sprayed everywhere, covering both Harry and Draco with thick, hot, greenish-red ooze. Granger screamed again, but the troll was now turned around and focused on Draco.

Draco’s eleven-year-old body had nowhere near the magic to knock out a fully-grown mountain troll. He knew this, petrified, and raised his wand to fire another spell. But Ron got there first.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” Ron yelled, and the troll’s club flew suddenly out of its hand. It rose high up into the air, turned slowly over-and dropped, with a sickening crack, onto its owner’s head. The troll swayed on the spot and then fell flat on its face, with a thud that made the whole room tremble.

Draco was frozen in his spot. He was shaking and quickly running out of breath. Ron was standing there with his wand still raised, staring at what he had done.

It was Hermione who spoke first.

“Is it- dead?”

“I don’t think so,” said Harry, “I think it’s just been knocked out.”

There were tears running down Granger’s face. Draco’s chest felt hot and his head was going foggy. His breaths were coming out incredibly fast, and his heart nearly stopped for a moment- when all four of them heard the sudden slamming of the door.

They hadn’t realised what a racket they had been making, but of course, someone downstairs must have heard the crashes and the troll’s roars. A moment later, Professor McGonagall had come bursting into the room, closely followed by Snape, with Quirrell bringing up the rear. Quirrell took one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper, and sat quickly down on a toilet, clutching his heart.

Snape bent over the troll. Professor McGonagall was looking at Ron and Harry, from where they stood by the cubicles in front of the troll. Draco and Hermione were sitting unusually close, over by the sinks. McGonagall wasn’t looking at them but Draco believed that he had never seen her this angry, save for the Battle of Hogwarts. And it had taken a lot to get her to that level, during the horrible events of that day.

“What on earth were you thinking of?” said Professor McGonagall, with cold fury in her voice. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Why aren’t you in your dormitory?”

It wasn’t until Hermione Granger stood up and left him did Draco realise that they’d been holding hands.

“Please, Professor McGonagall- they were looking for me.” Granger said. “I went looking for the troll because I-I thought I could deal with it on my own- you know, because I’ve read all about them.”

“Miss Granger!”

The mudblood teacher’s pet, Hermione Granger, telling a downright lie to a teacher? In her first year at Hogwarts?

“If they hadn’t found me, I’d be dead now. Harry and Draco shot spells at it and Ron knocked it out with its own club. They didn’t have time to come and fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they arrived.”

“Mister Malfoy?” It was as if McGonagall hadn’t even seen him. Draco shakily rose to his feet.

“It’s true, professor.” He offered, weakly.

Harry and Ron were trying to look as though the story wasn’t new to them, either.’ “Well- in that case...” said Professor McGonagall, staring at the four of them, “Miss Granger, you foolish girl, how could you think of tackling a mountain troll on your own?”

Hermione hung her head. Draco was speechless. Hermione Granger was the last person to do anything against the rules, and here she was, pretending she had, to get them out of trouble.

 _So how much, exactly, have I fucked up the timeline so far?_ Was Draco’s only thought. Draco remembered the troll interrupting their Halloween feast his first year, but nothing more than that. He also didn’t remember if Potty, Weasel, or Granger fought the troll in that timeline, either.

“Miss Granger, five points will be taken from Gryffindor for this,” said Professor McGonagall. “I’m very disappointed in you. If you’re not hurt at all, you’d better get off to Gryffindor Tower. Students are finishing the feast in their houses.”

Hermione left.

McGonagall turned to Harry, Ron, and Draco.

“Well, I still say you were lucky, but not many first years could have taken on a full-grown mountain troll. You each win Gryffindor five points. Professor Dumbledore will be informed of this. You may go.”

They hurried out of the chamber and didn’t speak at all until they had climbed two floors up. It was a relief to be away from the smell of the troll, quite apart from anything else.

“We should have gotten more than fifteen points,” Ron grumbled.

“Ten, you mean, once she’s taken off Hermione’s. You okay, Draco?”

“What?” Draco said. “Oh. Yeah.”

“Good of her to get us out of trouble like that,” Ron admitted. “Mind you, we did save her.”

“She might not have needed saving if we hadn’t locked the thing in with her,” Draco said.

They had reached the portrait of the Fat Lady.

“Pig snout,” they said and entered.

The common room was packed and noisy. Everyone was eating the food that had been set up. Hermione, however, stood alone by the door, waiting for them. There was a very embarrassed pause. Then, none of them looking at each other, they all said “Thanks,” and hurried off to get plates.

But from that moment on, Hermione Granger became their friend. There are some things you can’t share without ending up (sort of) liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them.

* * *

As they entered November, the weather turned very cold. The mountains around the school became icy gray and the lake like chilled steel. Every morning the ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen from the upstairs windows defrosting broomsticks on the Quidditch field, bundled up in a long moleskin overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous beaverskin boots.

The Quidditch season had begun. On Saturday, Harry would be playing in his first match after weeks of training: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. If Gryffindor won, they would move up into second place in the House Championship.      

It was really lucky that Harry had Draco as a friend, or else he probably wouldn’t have gotten through all of his homework without him, or Hermione, their new friend. With all the last-minute Quidditch practice that Oliver Wood was making him do.

Hermione also had become a bit more relaxed about breaking rules since Harry, Ron, and Draco had saved her from the mountain troll, and she was much nicer for it. The day before Harry’s first Quidditch match, the four of them were out in the freezing courtyard during break, and she had conjured them up a bright blue fire that could be carried around in a jam jar.

Now that Draco knew that Hermione could conjure flame as a first-year, he scowled a little. He could have done that. He could have been the one to show off.

They were standing with their backs to it, getting warm, when Snape crossed the yard. Draco noticed at once that Snape was limping. Draco, Harry, Ron, and Hermione moved closer together to block the fire from view; Hermione was sure it wouldn’t be allowed. Unfortunately, something about their guilty faces caught Snape’s eye. Draco’s expression remained impassive, but Snape limped over, anyway. He hadn’t seen the fire, but he seemed to be looking for a reason to tell them off.

“What’s that you’ve got there, Potter?”

Again with the not-acknowledging-Draco thing. Snape seemed to be ignoring him on the daily, now. No eye contact, nothing.

Harry showed him his _Quidditch Through the Ages_ book.

“Library books are not to be taken outside the school,” said Snape. “Give it to me. Five points from Gryffindor.”

“He’s just made that rule up,” Harry muttered angrily as Snape limped away. “Wonder what’s wrong with his leg?”

“Dunno, but I hope it’s really hurting him,” said Ron bitterly.

Draco narrowed his eyes. It sounded to him like Snape had an encounter with the three-headed dog on the third floor.

* * *

The Gryffindor common room was very noisy that evening. Draco and Harry were sat in the same armchair, going over their Charms homework. Granger was checking Ron’s in an opposite chair.

Draco was bored. It was almost a miracle when Harry stood up and told them that he was going to ask Snape for his book back.

“Better you than me,” said Ron and Hermione, together. Draco closed his textbook and ran to the dormitory to chuck it on his bed. He came down and followed Harry out the portrait door, alone.

They made their way down to the staffroom and knocked. There was no answer. Harry knocked again, nothing.

“Maybe Snape left the book in there?” suggested Draco. It was worth a try. Harry pushed the door ajar and peered inside- and a horrible scene met their eyes.

Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was holding his robes above his knees. One of his legs was bloody and mangled. Filch was handing Snape bandages.

“Blasted thing,” Snape was saying. “How are you supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at once?”

That essentially confirmed Draco’s theory. Snape had tried to get down the trap door. As Harry tried to shut the door, quietly, but-

“POTTER!”

Snape’s face was twisted with fury as he dropped his robes quickly to hide his leg. Draco gulped.

“I just wondered if I could have my book back,” Harry said.

“GET OUT! OUT!”

Harry and Draco left, before Snape could take any more points from Gryffindor. It was strange how Draco was starting to _care_ about house points again. They were just house points. It was just a suck-up competition.

“You know what this means?” Draco said, but Harry had already made the connection.       “He tried to get past that three-headed dog at Halloween! That’s where he was going when we saw him- he’s after whatever it’s guarding! And I’d bet my broomstick he let that troll in, to make a diversion!”

They were back in the common room. Hermione and Ron were listening, their eyes wide.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Draco said, tentatively. “Think about what you’re saying, Harry. I know he tried to get past the dog, but bringing a troll into the castle? He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t endanger students intentionally...”

“Honestly, you and Hermione think all teachers are saints or something,” snapped Ron. “I’m with Harry. I wouldn’t put anything past Snape. But what’s he after? What’s that dog guarding?”       

Draco went to bed with his head buzzing with the same question. Longbottom was snoring loudly, as always, but Draco couldn’t sleep. Even Harry had turned around in his bed and dozed off. _A Dreamless Sleep potion would be just brilliant right now,_ thought Draco, one of his arms aching from laying on it for too long.

That expression on Snape’s face when Draco and Harry had seen his leg wasn’t easy to forget. Draco had no problem with the blood- at least, seeing it up close. But it reminded him of the war. Seeing his mentor’s body dragged from the boathouses, bloody and pale and squishy-looking...

Draco never fell asleep, that night.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

The next morning dawned, very bright and cold. Although the weather wasn’t atypical for Scotland in the autumn, Draco made sure to bundle up extra warm- because today marked the first Quidditch match of the season- Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. And although Draco had been a Gryffindor for all of three months in this new timeline, it was the strangest thing to be pulling on a red and gold scarf for the match. He almost felt like he was betraying his former house, in a way, and Harry almost had to pull him from the mirror at half-past because they were going to be late for breakfast.

When Draco, Harry, and Ron reached the Great Hall at 7:45, it was full of the delicious smell of fried sausages and the cheerful chatter of everyone looking forward to a good Quidditch match. Even Granger looked excited, and it wasn’t like she was the biggest fan of the sport at eleven years old. He laughed at her enthusiasm and eyed the sausages sitting in front of Harry but thought better of it quickly- he was trying out a new thing in these three months. He hadn’t had the stomach for meat in a long while- but it was an entirely different thing to be giving it up completely. Draco took a plate of eggs and ate them slowly, but put his fork down at the sight of Harry’s suddenly terrible appetite. He must be nervous.

Funny. Harry Potter, scared of a game of Quidditch! Draco didn’t remember whether Harry had ever been nervous before a match, he’d always just stared Draco down and made _him_ nervous. But Draco wasn’t playing in this match, and probably would never play Quidditch on a Hogwarts house team again. You know, because his position was taken up by none other than the Golden Boy himself. And because Draco wasn’t a Slytherin anymore.

“Eat,” he said to Harry, motioning with his fork. But Harry shook his head.

“I don’t want anything,” said the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Starve-to-Death.

“Just a bit of toast,” Hermione butted in.

“I’m not hungry,” Harry repeated.

“You need your strength today,” reminded Draco, “Eat or you’ll be too tired and you’ll fall off your broom. Quidditch matches can last for hours, you know. You never know how long you’ll be up there.”

“Funny you tell me that, because I haven’t really seen you touch your eggs, either,” Harry pointed out, with a bit of a biting tone. As if to prove him wrong, Draco put a big forkful in his mouth, as Ron piled ketchup on Harry’s sausages.

* * *

By eleven o’clock, the whole school seemed to be out in the stands around the Quidditch pitch. Draco and Hermione had gone back to the dormitory together to get Hermione’s set of binoculars, and the three of them planned to share to see what was going on in the match. The third person being Ron, who saved them all seats in the top row.

Draco and Hermione made it back up with limited conversation, joining Longbottom, Finnegan, and Dean Thomas up at the top. As a surprise for Harry, they had painted a large banner on one of the sheets Scabbers had ruined. It said Potter for President, and Draco didn’t actually know this, but Dean Thomas was apparently quite good at drawing, and therefore must have been behind all of those Gryffindor banners that popped up during his matches in the previous timeline. This banner, however, had a large Gryffindor lion underneath the message. And Draco had performed his colour changing charm, so that the paint flashed different colours. Even though that charm was technically third-year level, Draco had already done it in McGonagall’s Transfiguration class a few days back with the buttons. So it hadn’t been a huge deal when he offered to help with the banner.

* * *

When the teams emerged from the locker rooms, Draco leapt to his feet with everyone else and hooted and cheered and screamed, along with the kids who were supposed to be his enemies, in the old timeline. It was a little humbling, in a way. Draco could appreciate the match more because he knew that last time, he’d booed and thrown snacks at other Slytherins, on the other side of the stadium, with Crabbe and Goyle. And no one had particularly liked him, then, either. But now, he had Ron, who was actually a surprisingly good friend- and Hermione, who was (admittedly) brilliant and thought to bring her muggle binoculars to keep an eye on Harry. And the other Gryffindor boys from their dorm- they weren’t half bad when Draco wasn’t being a dick- they’d all worked together to make the banner, after all. Overall, he was beginning to feel a sort of kinship with the Gryffindors, and it was almost like he belonged somewhere.

Seamus Finnegan had actually spoke up for Ron and Draco when Nott and Zabini passed by the Gryffindor table in the morning, routinely, making inane comments about blood-traitors. Finnegan and Draco had never had a real conversation, before, but Draco felt a little better about the constant comments from the other Slytherins who had expected the “Malfoy, the Prince of Slytherin.”  

“There’s Madam Hooch!” yelled Longbottom, and Draco watched as the witch gave a loud blast on her silver whistle.

Then, fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the air. They were off. “And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor- what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too-”

Draco laughed at the Weasley twins’ friend, who was providing the commentary for the match. When Lee Jordan graduated, there had been a huge hole left in the game. He truly made the match entertaining to watch, if Draco wasn’t in the air, he was at least laughing at McGonagall trying to control his comments.

“And she’s really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood’s, last year only a reserve- back to Johnson and- no, the Slytherins have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes- Flint flying like an eagle up there- he’s going to sc- no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Wood and the Gryffindors take the Quaffle- that’s Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nive dive around Flint, off up the field and- OUCH – that mmust have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a Bludger- Quaffle taken by the Slytherins- that’s Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal posts, but he’s blocked by a second Bludger- sent his way by Fred or George Weasley, can’t tell which- nice play by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson back in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes- she’s really flying- dodges a speeding Bludger- the goal posts are ahead- come one, now, Angelina- Keeper Bletchley dives- misses- GRYFFINDORS SCORE!”

Draco leapt to his feet as Gryffindor cheers filled the cold air, and felt a smug satisfaction when he heard the Slytherins howling and moaning.

“Budge up there, move along.”

“Hagrid!” Draco heard Hermione say through chattering teeth, and the three of them squeezed together to give the oaf enough space to join them. Draco unfastened his cloak and offered half of it to Hermione, so that they could fit. They were both small enough to share it, but it was a tight squeeze. Hagrid was truly massive. Draco was just proud enough of himself that he didn’t complain, or make a noise that revealed he really didn’t like the half-giant.

“Bin watchin’ from me hut,” said Hagrid, patting a large pair of binoculars around his neck, “But it isn’t the same as bein’ in the crowd. No sign of the Snitch, yet, eh?”

“Nope,” said Ron. “Harry hasn’t had much to do yet.”

“Kept outta trouble, though, that’s somethin’,” said Hagrid, raising his binoculars and peering skyward at the speck that was Harry. Draco borrowed Hermione’s to see Harry, who was gliding over the game way above them, squinting about for some sign of the Snitch. A Bludger had decided to come pelting his way, more like a cannonball than anything, but Harry had dodged it and one of the Weasley twins came chasing after it.

Draco put the binoculars down and passed them to Ron.

“Slytherin in possession,” Lee Jordan was saying, “Chaser Pucey duckes two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the-”

“That’s the Snitch!” Draco cried, and Ron was looking through the binoculars, but even from this far away, Draco had seen the streak of gold. Clearly, Harry had seen it too, and in a great rush, he dived downward after the Snitch, Slytherin Seeker Terence Higgs diving just a hairlength after him. Draco laughed at the Chasers, who seemed to have forgotten what they were supposed to be doing as they hung in midair to watch.

Harry was faster than Higgs- Draco watched as he sped after the tiny gold ball, fluttering in the air- WHAM! Draco and Ron let out a roar of rage as they watched Harry’s broom speed off course. Marcus Flint had blocked Harry on purpose.

“Foul!” screamed the Gryffindors.

Madam Hooch spoke angrily to Flint and then ordered a free shot at the goal posts for Gryffindor. But in all the confusion, of course, the Golden Snitch had disappeared from sight again.

Dean Thomas was yelling gibberish next to Ron, and Draco was just a seat over. “Send him off, ref! Red card!”

“What are you talking about, Dean?” said Ron.

“Red card!” said Dean, furiously, as Draco listened, “In football you get shown the red card and you’re out of the game!”

“But this isn’t football, Dean,” Ron reminded him.

Hagrid, however, was on Dean’s side. “They oughta change the rules. Flint coulda knocked Harry out of the air.”

Lee Jordan was finding it difficult not to take sides.

“So- after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating-”

“Jordan!” growled Professor McGonagall.

“I mean, after that open and revolting foul-”

“Jordan, I’m warning you-”

“All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I’m sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinnet, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue to play, Gryffindor still in possession.”

Ron was still looking through Hermione’s binoculars when Draco heard him give a sudden gasp. It was as Harry dodged another Bludger, that it happened. Draco watched as Harry’s broom gave a sudden, frightening lurch. For a split second, Draco thought the kid was going to fall.

It happened again. It was as though the broom was trying to buck him off. Draco’s memory was hazy of the first ever Quidditch match in the old timeline- but one thing that he _had_ remembered was this. Potter’s new broomstick had tried to buck him off.

Draco watched, helplessly, as he realized that Harry’s broom was completely out of his control. It was zigzagging through the air, and every now and then making violent swishing movements that almost unseated him.

Lee was still commentating.

“Slytherin in possession- Flint with the Quaffle- passes Spinnet- passes Bell- hit hard in the face by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose- only joking, Professor- Slytherin score- oh no-”

The Slytherins were cheering. Draco felt as if he were surrounded by white noise. No one else, save Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid, seemed to have noticed that Harry’s broom was behaving strangely. It was carrying him slowly higher, away from the game, jerking and twitching as it went.

“Dunno what Harry thinks he’s doing,” Hagrid mumbled. The half-giant stared through his binoculars. “If I didn’ know better, I’d say he’d lost control of his broom... but he can’t have...”

Draco took out his wand. He didn’t know what he was going to do with it, or if he could really do anything, but he remembered Potter had survived this anyway- but as Harry’s broom started to roll over and over, with him only just managing to hold on, he looked to Hermione for help. The whole crowd had noticed now, and Harry’s broom had now given a wild jerk and Harry swung off it. He was now dangling from it, holding on with only one hand.

“Did something happen to it when Flint blocked him?” Seamus whispered from the other side of Hagrid.

“Can’t have,” Hagrid said, his voice shaking. “Can’t nothing interfere with a broomstick except powerful Dark magic- no kid could do that to a Nimbus Two Thousand.”

 _Oh, you don’t know what a kid could do with dark magic,_ Draco thought, despairingly, as Hermione seized Hagrid’s binoculars, but instead of looking up at Harry, like Ron was, she started looking frantically at the crowd.

“What are you doing?” moaned Ron, gray-faced.

Draco cursed and took the other set of binoculars from Ron. He zoomed them in on the crowd on the opposite side, starting with the teachers, and then the Slytherins.

“I’m an idiot,” Draco said, just before Hermione gasped, “Snape,” and he then cried, “Quirrell,” at the same time. They both looked to each other, swapped to look at the other offender- and Draco saw Professor Snape in the middle of the stands opposite them, his onyx eyes fixed on Harry and muttering nonstop under his breath.

“They’re both doing something- jinxing the broom,” said Hermione.

“What should we do?” said Ron.

“Come on,” growled Draco, pulling Hermione up and leaving the cloak on the bench. There was no time. Before Ron could say another word, they were off- hurrying through the wooden stadium, fighting Gryffindors, Slytherins, and Ravenclaws- all to get to the other side.

“Quirrell is doing something,” said Draco, “But so is Snape.” He knew Snape wouldn’t try to kill Harry, so he was most likely performing the counter-curse, but Quirrell he knew to be a servant of the Dark Lord. But obviously, he couldn’t tell Hermione that.

“If they’re working together, we should distract them,” countered Hermione, her brilliance shining through- how Draco didn’t acknowledge this before was lost to him- “Do you know how to conjure fire?”

Draco nodded quickly, they were now underneath the teacher’s section. They were just about to climb the stairs to the tower- it was higher than any other stands in the stadium- when Hermione pulled on his arm. “But what if one of them is trying to help Harry?” she asked him, and Draco frowned.

“There’s no time,” he said, “it doesn’t matter. The distraction should break both of their eye contact and the broom should be safe, anyway.”

They ran up the stairs, under the stands, and they found Snape and Quirrell’s feet, shooting bright blue flames out of their wands onto the hem of the teacher’s robes.

It took perhaps thirty seconds for Snape to realize that he was on fire. A sudden yelp from Quirrell told them that they had done their job. Draco quickly conjured two jars for them to scoop the fire off them into a little jar in her pocket, as they scrambled down the stairs- Snape nor Quirrell would never know what had happened.

As they reached the open stands again, it was enough. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able to clamber back on to his broom.

Draco and Hermione had barely made it back before Harry was speeding toward the ground, when the crowd saw Harry clap his hand to his mouth as though he was about to be sick- he hit the field on all fours- coughed, and something gold fell into his hand.

Draco watched, with baited breath, as Harry shouted something, waving the Snitch above his head, and there was some confusion as Marcus Flint landed on the field, howling, “He didn’t catch it, he nearly swallowed it,” for nearly twenty minutes, but it made no difference- Harry hadn’t broken any rules and Lee Jordan was still happily shouting the results- Gryffindor had won by one hundred and seventy points to sixty.

And Draco, Ron, and Hermione tackled Harry into a massive group hug, celebrating his win. Draco was so relieved and happy, he didn’t even complain when Hagrid dragged them all to his hut for a cup of strong tea.

But the mood fell, to a point, when Draco, Ron, and Hermione brought up the two teachers. “It was Snape and Quirrell,” Ron was explaining, “We all saw him. They were cursing your broomstick, muttering, they wouldn’t take their eyes off you.”

“Rubbish,” said Hagrid, who hadn’t heard a word of what had gone on next to him in the stands. “Why would Snape or Quirrell do somethin’ like that?

The four first-years looked at one another, wondering what to tell him. Draco decided on the truth.

“Harry and I found out something about Snape,” he spoke up, “He tried to get past that three-headed dog on Halloween. It bit him. And Quirrell, I was watching him after everyone tried to leave the feast! After he fainted, he left sneakily through that corridor that leads to the Third Floor.”

“We think they might be trying to steal whatever it’s guarding,” put in Harry.

Hagrid dropped the teapot.

“How do you know about Fluffy?” he said.

 _"Fluffy?”_ said Draco, incredulously. _He somehow obtains a Cerberus and decides to name it Fluffy. Fucking Fluffy. This oaf is insane, as well as stupid. That’s it, I’m done. I’m out. Fuck this. You couldn’t name it something else? Like, Fucking Lord of Darkness?_

“Yeah- he’s mine- bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las’ year- I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the-”

“Yes?” said Harry eagerly.

“Now, don’t ask me anymore,” said Hagrid gruffly. “That’s top secret, that is.”

“But Snape and Quirrell are trying to steal it.”

“Rubbish,” said Hagrid again. “Professor Snape and Professor Quirrell’re Hogwarts teachers, they’d do nothing of the sort.”

“So why did both of them just try and kill Harry?” cried Hermione.  
  
The afternoon’s events certainly seemed to have changed her mind about both of them, in general. Draco had been met with resistance when he’d suggested Quirrell was in on it in the first place- first was Quirrell’s stutter, second his general incompetence teaching Defense, and third his lack of communication with Snape. And, of course, the other three wanted to blame Snape anyway, who was pretty much openly hostile against Harry, and didn’t bother to try and hide that bite on Halloween. But Draco had pointed out to them in the Gryffindor Common Room at some point that Quirrell had disappeared after screaming about the troll. What if he’d let the troll in? It was well known that Quirrell was particularly skilled with them. And this fact had made Hermione more interested in investigating Quirrell.

“I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I’ve read all about them! You’ve got to keep eye contact, and neither Quirrell nor Snape were blinking at all, I saw them!”

“I’m tellin’ yeh, yer wrong!” said Hagrid hotly. “I don’ know why Harry’s broom acted like that, but Snape or Quirrell wouldn’ try an’ kill a student! Now listen to me, all four of yeh- yer meddlin’ in things that don’ concern yeh. It’s dangerous. You forget that dog, an’ you forget what it’s guardin,’ that’s between Professor Dumbledore an’ Nicolas Flamel-”

“Aha!” said Harry, “so there’s someone called Nicolas Flamel involved, is there?”

Hagrid looked furious with himself.


	15. Chapter 15

Christmas was coming. One morning in mid-December, Hogwarts woke to find itself covered in several feet of snow. The Black Lake froze solid and the Weasley twins were punished for bewitching several snowballs so that they followed Quirrell around, bouncing off the back of his turban. The few owls that managed to battle their way through the stormy sky to deliver mail had to be nursed back to health by Hagrid before they could fly off again.

Draco got no mail from his father or his mother, not since the somewhat confusing letter that arrived in September. But he hadn’t penned a response to that one- the one where his mother told him that “things were not good at home” and that his father wasn’t exactly happy he got sorted into Gryffindor. He was starting to feel lonely once more, once the rest of the Gryffindors mellowed out after their big win at the end of November.

Even though no one could wait for the holidays to start, the drafty corridors of Hogwarts had become icy and a bitter wind rattled the windows in the classrooms. Worst of all were Professor Snape’s classes down in the dungeons, where Draco’s breath rose in a mist before him and he kept as close as possible to their hot cauldrons.

“I do feel so sorry,” said Theodore Nott, quietly, but just loud enough so that Draco and Harry could hear from their cauldron, one Potions class, “for all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they’re not wanted at home.”

The dark chuckles from Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle were coupled with the high, shrill laughter from Pansy Parkinson and her friend Tracey. Snape was prowling the aisles and quickly shot them a dangerous look- more for their volume than anything else, Snape didn’t care about what his Slytherins said in class- but Draco continued measuring his spine of lionfish and ignored them. Even though he was quite sure he had said this exact thing to Harry the first time around. He felt a pang of guilt and wiped his forehead, to make sure he wasn’t sweating. Of course, this was impossible, because the dungeon was freezing inside.

The Slytherins had gotten more irritating since their loss in November. Especially Nott, Zabini, and Parkinson, who took little care in what they said, taunting Harry about having no proper family and Draco for being a disappointment that wasn’t allowed back at Malfoy Manor, ever. Pansy had even passed by him at one point to ask him, “So, Draco, ever wonder if mummy and daddy are working on a new heir? You know, one that won’t be a huge disappointment this time?” Draco couldn’t even believe he’d ever gone to the Yule Ball with this bitch.

It was true that Draco wasn’t going back to Malfoy Manor for Christmas. Since he’d heard nothing from mother, he had signed up to stay at Hogwarts, begrudgingly, along with Harry, who obviously never wanted to return to Privet Drive with the muggles anyway.

Draco didn’t really feel sorry for himself, Christmas would be good enough without his father, whom he hated anyway. He did wonder though, if that’s what his mother and father were doing- trying for another kid so that they could get rid of Draco. It wasn’t a huge stretch. But Draco had no faith in even the slightest chance of them being successful- he knew they’d tried before but couldn’t have another child. And this had been after he was born. Most purebloods could only have one or two children, anyway. Draco could even imagine his father, reading the Daily Prophet, back in the eighties, grinding his teeth with every new Weasley birth announcement. It was kind of strange, actually, that the Weasleys could pretty much breed like rabbits and people like his mother and father would only have maybe one kid survive- and it had been him. Imagine if he’d been a girl!

Draco had nearly fully separated himself from everything sequentially “pure-blood.” Knowing that his father was likely insane only kept him moving, during the war, he’d been sick countless times, regretting _so much-_ but now that Draco was so much younger, and not experiencing constant stress from that, he was much more aware of how crazy the whole society was. He could completely empathize with Hermione Granger, of all things! He _knew_ there was so much inbreeding that wizarding society was about to collapse, he _knew_ that muggle-borns were just as good, if not better than pure-bloods because they came from perfectly healthy bloodlines- most of them, anyway! He _knew_ that the Dark Lord- fuck- Voldemort- was bloody insane and his father was bloody insane and he should have known better than to take that damn tattoo because hell, he would have paid for it, had he not ended up back in 1991.

Draco had been given a chance to fix things and Merlin, was he not going to fuck it up. He was going to stay at Hogwarts with Harry for Christmas, and they were going to have a damn good time together!

Ron and his brothers were staying, too, because their parents were going to Romania to visit their second-oldest, Charlie. Draco would actually have both Harry and Ron for company. Hermione was going home to her perfect muggle parents, of course. Maybe Draco could visit them someday, and learn how they lived. It wasn’t like he would have much money left after Lucius officially kicked him out.

* * *

When the quartet left the dungeons at the end of Potions, they found a large fir tree blocking the corridor ahead. Two enormous feet sticking out at the bottom and a loud puffing sound told them that Hagrid was behind it.

“Hi, Hagrid, want any help?” Ron asked, sticking his head through the branches.

“Nah, I’m all right, thanks, Ron.”

“Would you mind moving out of the way?” came Nott’s cold drawl from behind them. “Are you trying to earn some extra money, Weasley? Hoping to be gamekeeper yourself when you leave Hogwarts, I suppose- that hut of Hagrid’s must seem like a palace compared to what your family’s used to.”

“Maybe Malfoy could join him as caretaker. After all, it’s blood-traitors like you that fill the likes of _those_ positions,” Zabini added from beside Nott.

Draco stood there, masking his reaction, but Ron was already diving at Nott. But Snape had just come up the stairs.

 “WEASLEY!”

Ron let go of the front of Nott’s robes.

“He was provoked, Professor Snape,” said Hagrid, sticking his huge hairy face out from behind the tree. “Nott and Zabini were insultin’ Ron and Draco’s families.”

“Be that as it may, fighting is against Hogwarts rules, Hagrid,” said Snape silkily. “Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn’t more. Move along, all of you.”

Zabini and Nott, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, pushed roughly past the tree, scattering needles everywhere and smirking.

“I’ll get them,” said Ron, grinding his teeth at their backs, “one of these days, I’ll get him-”

“I hate them,” said Harry, beside Draco, “Zabini and Nott and Snape.”

“Come on, cheer up, it’s nearly Christmas,” said Hagrid. “Tell yeh what, come with me an’ see the Great Hall, looks a treat.”

So the four of them followed Hagrid and his tree off to the Great Hall, where Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick were busy with the Christmas decorations.

“Ah, Hagrid, the last tree- put it in the far corner, would you?”

The hall looked spectacular, just as Draco remembered it. Festoons of holly and mistletoe hung all around the walls, and no less than twelve towering Christmas trees stood around the room, some sparkling with tiny icicles, some glittering with hundreds of candles.

“How many days you got left until yer holidays?” Hagrid asked.

“Just one,” said Hermione. “And that reminds me- Draco, Harry, Ron, we’ve got half an hour before lunch, we should be in the library.”

“Oh yes, you’re right,” said Draco, tearing his eyes away from Professor Flitwick, who had golden bubbles blossoming out of his wand and was trailing them over the branches of the new tree.

“The library?” said Hagrid, following them out of the hall. “Just before the holidays? Bit keen, aren’t yeh?”

“Oh, we’re not working,” Harry told him brightly. “Ever since you mentioned Nicolas Flamel we’ve been trying to find out who he is.”

“You what?” Hagrid looked shocked. “Listen here- I’ve told yeh- drop it. It’s nothin’ to you what that dog’s guardin’.”

“We just want to know who Nicolas Flamel is, that’s all,” said Ron.

“Unless you’d like to tell us and save us the trouble?” Draco added. “We must’ve been through hundreds of books already and we can’t find him anywhere- just give us a hint- I know I’ve read his name somewhere.”

“I’m sayin’ nothin,” said Hagrid flatly.

“Just have to find out for ourselves, then,” said Harry, and they left Hagrid looking disgruntled and hurried off to the library.

They had indeed been searching books for Flamel’s name ever since Hagrid had let it slip, because how else were they going to find out what Snape or Quirrellmort was trying to steal? The trouble was, it was very hard to know where to begin, not knowing what Flamel might have done to get himself into a book. He wasn’t in _Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century,_ or _Notable Magical Names of Our Time_ ; he was missing, too, from _Important Modern Magical Discoveries,_ and _A Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry._ And then, of course, there was the sheer size of the library; tens of thousands of books; thousands of shelves; hundreds of narrow rows.

Draco and Hermione took out a list of subjects and titles they had decided to search while Ron strode off down a row of books and started pulling them off the shelves at random. Harry had wandered over to the Restricted Section. Draco and Hermione stayed there for ten minutes before realizing that it was lunch- Draco was all for staying in the library and skipping the meal, but it was Hermione’s last day before the holidays and he should probably say goodbye after lunch.

“You will keep looking while I’m away, won’t you?” said Hermione. “And send me an owl if you find anything.”

“And you could ask your parents if they know who Flamel is,” said Ron, “It’d be safe to ask them.”

“Very safe, as they’re both dentists,” said Hermione.

* * *

Once the holidays had started, Draco, Ron, and Harry were having too good a time to think much about Flamel. Only Draco made a daily trip to the library in the mornings after breakfast- and he checked out plenty of books, too- they had the dormitory to themselves and the common room was far emptier than usual, so they were able to get the good armchairs by the fire. The three of them sat by the hour in front of the fire, Draco reading and basically doing the work for Harry and Ron, who were perfectly content to eat anything they could spear on a toasting fork- bread, marshmallows, and scones- and plotting ways of getting both Zabini and Nott expelled, which were fun to talk about even if in the previous timeline, Harry and Ron were probably doing the same thing about Draco.

Ron and Draco also started teaching Harry wizard chess. Draco had left his set at home- but Ron had brought one and it was very old and battered. Like everything else Ron owned, it had once belonged to someone else in his family- in this case, his grandfather. However, old chessmen weren’t a drawback at all. Ron knew them so well he never had trouble getting them to do what he wanted.

Harry played with chessmen Seamus Finnegan had lent him, and they didn’t trust him at all. Draco watched amusedly as the players kept shouting different bits of advice at him. “Don’t send me there, can’t you see his knight? Send him, we can afford to lose him.” On Christmas Eve, Draco went to bed looking forward to the next day for the food and the fun, but not expecting many presents because of his parents’ cold-shouldering. When he woke early in the morning, however, the first thing he saw was a small pile of packages at the foot of his bed.

His pleasant surprise was interrupted by Harry, who scrambled out of bed and pulled on his bathrobe.

“Happy Christmas,” said Ron sleepily.

“Happy Christmas,” said Draco.

“Happy Christmas!” said Harry. “Will you look at this? I’ve got some presents!”

“What did you expect, turnips?” said Ron, turning to his own pile, which was a lot bigger than Harry’s or Draco’s.

Draco picked up the top parcel, which was wrapped in thick brown paper and scrawled across it was _To Draco, from Hagrid._ Inside, it turned out to be some of Hagrid’s homemade rock cakes. Draco quickly put them aside, touched at the thought, but he would never touch anything that man gave him. Ron seemed to have gotten a package of those, as well. A second parcel contained (perfectly edible) candy from Harry, and a new chess set, since he’d left his at home. “Thanks, mate!” He said, lifting the box in the air. Harry grinned at him in response.

His next parcel was an old tome from Hermione- _Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration-_ with a Florish and Blotts animated Christmas card,thanks, _Hermione._ What a read that was going to be. Although Draco probably shouldn’t be judging her for her choices in gifting- after all, he’d spent the last of his pocket money on her gift card for the same store in question. There was also the fact that everyone knew him to be a transfiguration prodigy- it was the only class he bothered with not screwing up on purpose, ever since McGonagall exposed him a month back.

Apparently, Hermione knew this, too, because she’d gotten Ron and Harry boxes of candy. And her note said, _Dear Draco, you’re the only friend I have who takes pleasure in reading the same things I do. Merry Christmas! Love from Hermione,_ in cursive that could probably rival his mother’s.

Ooh. _Love from Hermione_. Maybe Draco should have bothered to be more eloquent in his note- which he’d conjured in red and green but no one would probably know- he’d written _Hermione, enjoy, whatever you choose. Draco._

Moving on, the next package was something Draco didn’t quite expect- it was his mother’s personal family photo album. Draco had seen it before, in the future- it had photos of her parents, her sisters (even the one she didn’t talk about), her wedding day, and his childhood photographs. It was very different from the Malfoy album- that one had every press photo ever taken of Lucius’ family, _ever_ , and barely any photos of the fucker’s childhood. No one had probably cared enough to take them. But his mother’s album had personal, intimate photographs inside- taken by her and her grandparents- so why would she be sending him this? Attached to it was a thick envelope, with a letter inside. Almost fearing the contents, he flinched, before ripping it open.

 

_Dear Draco,_

_Merry Christmas. I love you very much and I will continue to love you, forever. I miss you at home, and all the days before you left for school. I’m so sorry for neglecting to write you these past months, you must be feeling so alone. I wished to write you, but these past months have been, regrettably, difficult for your father, and by extension, me. He believes you have embarrassed him and his House, and likely will continue this odd silence we find ourselves in._

_I’ve tried to talk to him, but he’s just so angry, all the time. He smashed the bust of one of our Black ancestors- you know, the witch in the drawing room- in a fit of rage and I’m afraid he’ll smash more of what’s ours before he’s finished. ~~He~~_

_I wish to impart some words on you, Draco, before his letter arrives- it should be in your Christmas things, unfortunately- and I do hope you haven’t already opened it. If you have, just know that you will always have me, Draco. He hasn’t planned on doing anything, yet. I’ve made my thoughts perfectly clear on the matter. Just know that I would do anything to protect you ~~and.~~_

_I’ve sent you this album in the hopes that it will be better protected with you than with me. These photographs are very special to me and your father knows it. I’ve also sent you some other heirlooms that I’d rather keep out of his hands, you don’t have to do anything with them, just keep them in your trunk and I can take them back when this all blows over._

_I wish I could be telling you this in person, but I’d rather not let him near you just yet. He can be quite terrifying, your father. I know that he’ll be better come the summer holidays. Everything will be alright, Draco. Just keep your head up and Merlin knows it will get better. I’ve read your half-term report and you have perfect marks! I’m so proud of you. Have you made any friends? Are you spending time with them now? I want to know everything._

_Love,_

_Mum xoxo_

_P.S. Please send all future letters to 12 Grimmauld Place, London._

 

Draco was sitting straight up in his bed, holding the letter in his hands. From the looks of things, Lucius was _not_ happy at all. If his mother was sending him Black heirlooms, things must be really bad. He hoped Lucius wasn’t hurting her, but knowing him, he probably was.

He felt panic, and with it, tears rising up inside him. This was not what Draco wanted at all! He had expected to lose them both, cry, mourn, and get over it. Even though it would hurt. But now, his mother was acting very much unlike herself- trying to smooth things out with his father- even though Lucius obviously did not want Draco for a son anymore. Reading between the lines, Draco was quite nervous about his mother- her phrasing was worrisome- what did she mean by “I’m afraid he’ll smash more of what’s ours before he’s finished?”

Draco knew that she was on his side already. But what she was saying- was she trying to hint that she and Draco were different? Or that anything she had brought to the Manor, any Black heirloom she had when she married Lucius, didn’t belong to her husband? Her personal wealth had been absorbed by his father, when they married. He was pretty much in charge of any monetary transaction, and kept a close eye on every account. So by extension, any Black heirlooms that had belonged to Narcissa were his as well. _More of what’s ours?_

And the fact that she was trying to get him to send his letters to a different address- that was worrying. Definitely worrying. But the worst part was the other thing she mentioned- Lucius had written to Draco. The letter was with his Christmas presents.

Almost feverishly, Draco pulled another envelope from the small pile of presents- it was sealed with his father’s coat of arms in black wax- this was the kind of seal he would use for business.

Draco noticed that Harry and Ron were watching him, now. They had already finished opening their presents, and were waiting for him. Harry had on a new jumper that Ron’s mum knitted him.

He broke the seal. And his face went white.

“Draco?”

“Draco, what’s wrong?”


	16. Chapter 16

His breaths were fast, but at least they were coming. The letter in front of him shook in his hands. Its ink swirled in its perfect calligraphy, no doubt from his father’s hand. He looked from Harry to Ron, in utter disbelief. What had he been expecting? The letter from his mother had softened the blow considerably, she said- she _said_ that he wasn’t planning to do anything- but he never expected _this._

Attached was a partial copy of his father’s will- it was still insanely thick parchment but Draco recognized, at least, that the thing was goblin-made.

“I’ve been disinherited,” The words fell out of his mouth before he could think about them. Because he truly was in shock- he had _hoped_ that he would have still been given time to you know, offload some of his accounts to somewhere his father couldn’t find them, _yes,_ it was stealing, but what choice did he have? Now Draco had nothing. No money, no inheritance. It was still a question as to whether Draco was welcome back at the Manor- but this was just...

Sending an eleven-year-old boy a copy of a will that he probably didn’t understand, sending a _child_ the news he wasn’t promised anything his father ever told him about? On Christmas? _Fuck you, Lucius._

“Oh no, Draco-” Harry said some other things too, but Draco wasn’t listening. He just felt angry, not angry for himself- but angry for the eleven-year-old boy that he was supposed to be. How could he do this?

Ron had come over to Draco’s bed, too, and the three children were sitting on top of it. Draco was in the middle, Ron and Harry by his side.

“Wait, wait, there’s more...” Harry mumbled, squinting to read the slanted calligraphy, and handed it over to Ron, who could better read the words. Draco knew that Ron’s mother probably taught the Weasley children cursive- he wasn’t sure about Harry, who lived with those fucking muggles.

“This is a draft,” said Ron, pointing at the top- and Draco frowned.

“No, no, that can’t be,” There was something stuck in the back of his throat, he felt somewhat light-headed- probably from the shock. “It says right here, _‘I have intentionally failed to provide for my son, Draco Lucius Malfoy.’_ That means disinheritance, it’s right there on the parchment.”

“No, but look at the bottom,” said Ron, his voice was strained and he clearly felt uncomfortable- this was a far too heavy subject to talk about on Christmas- again, _fuck Lucius_.       “Dray,” Harry touched his arm, “Read it, go on.”

Draco had his face in his hands, “ _No,_ I can’t look,” he moaned. He felt overly childish in this moment, but they couldn’t make him read anything he didn’t want to, right?

“Fine. I’ll read it,” Harry had a sort of edge to his voice, as he took the parchment back from Ron, ‘“ _I have intentionally failed to provide for my son, Draco Lucius Malfoy,’_ but there’s something else at the bottom. _‘Cease...’”_

Ron took the parchment back. ‘“ _Cease your pathetic attachment to...to Harry Potter and the Weasley boy.’”_ Ron looked at Harry, before continuing, ‘“ _Do not continue to consort yourself with mudbloods or there will be further consequences. Lord Malfoy.’”_

“Fuck, really?” Draco said, taking his hands away from pulling at his cheeks, then blushed. “Oh. Oops. Sorry.”

This probably wasn’t the first time he’d sworn out-loud in front of Harry and Ron, but he needed to watch himself for the future. It probably wouldn’t be right for the professors to hear that their golden boy knew all the more colourful wizard swears Draco had picked up from the Death Eaters.

“Well that’s obviously not going to happen,” Draco said, when the two of them looked at him nervously.

Harry and Ron continued to stare at him. “He can do all he wants,” he tried again, “I won’t stop talking to you guys or Hermione. I mean, I share a dorm with you guys, for Merlin’s sake. What’s he gonna do?”

“Transfer you to Durmstrang?” Harry blurted this out, and for once, Draco considered the possibility. He must’ve told the boys that at some point, but that conversation had happened like, a couple of months ago. Maybe even on one of the first few nights at dinner. The fact that Harry had remembered that about him- it was impressive.

“My mother wouldn’t stand for it,” Draco said, after the slight pause. “Look what she said, here,” He dug out the letter from the other Christmas things he hadn’t unwrapped yet.

When Harry had finished reading the letter, he passed it to Ron, who whistled lowly. “Your mum’s handwriting is better than _his!_ ” The ginger boy said, colouring slightly.

“Yeah, it’s impeccable. I’ve tried to replicate it, but, you know...” Draco chucked dryly, clearly referencing every time Hermione had ever corrected his Fs, Gs, and Hs when they studied together. It was like having his mother in school with him, it was scary. Eleven-year-old Draco’s hand motor skills just weren’t up to par, and Draco’s handwriting had evolved somehow between fourth and fifth year, leading to some of his letters shaping differently. For example, one time he’d added the stick to his number 7, and had _never_ been able to write the 7 normally again, it just looked _wrong_ without the stick. Same with the time he tried writing the number one the French way, and now he couldn’t write just a stick, it always ended up looking like a seven. Much to the chagrin of his mother.

“I’m a little worried about her,” Draco admitted to his friends, “I like how she pretended to not know who my friends are. I mean, it’s very obvious she knows. Notwithstanding _his_ letter. I mean, he didn’t even mention Hermione by name. Just...by that very not-nice slur. I can’t believe him!”

He was stopped by Harry surprising him with a hug. It was completely unexpected.

“Is this something that we do? Do we hug, now?” He kind of felt like he was being squeezed to death, but he didn’t complain. Even more so, when Harry crashed his body into Ron, wrapping his skinny arms around the both of them.

“I don’t know, it just sort of happened,” said Ron. Then the three of them laughed.

They untangled themselves and Draco started sorting out his presents. He put all the candy in one place, then ripped open a few of the smaller parcels- he supposed that they were the rest of the Black heirlooms he was supposed to be keeping safe.

“Who’s sent you a necklace?” Ron said, picking it up by the chain, and Draco took it back.

“Mother. Some of the things I’m supposed to be keeping for her. I guess they’re safer here, with me, then back where-” Draco stopped speaking with a frown. “I’m actually quite worried. I wish I could see her, do you think McGonagall will let me floo call her if I ask nicely?”

“Maybe, I mean, you’re her favourite student,” Ron said, chewing on a chocolate frog. “Smartest kid in the class and all.”

“I’m sure she would let you,” Harry reassured him, worrying his bottom lip. “But what if, what if he sees you?”

“Dunno. Maybe I’ll owl her back, first,” Draco looked down as he unwrapped a watch with a note on it- ‘ _Keep this for yourself, Draco. This belonged to your grandfather Cygnus.’_

“ _Wow_ ,” said Ron, admiring the goblin-made wrist-watch. “This must have cost a fortune. How old is it?”

“As old as my grandfather Cygnus, probably,” Draco said with a frown. “His brother had a matching one. I wonder where it went.”

It was usually tradition to give a wizard a watch on his seventeenth birthday. It was when his mother had given him this, in the old timeline. Why was she giving him the watch now? Something was clearly not right here. Something was clearly not right at all.

He unwrapped two more heirlooms- a reeeally old copy of _Beedle and the Bard_ , and a reeeally old stack of plates with the Black family crest on them. They were kind of weird Christmas presents, but Draco simply wrapped the plates back up and got up to put them in his trunk. Yeah. Something really wasn’t right here.

There was one last present sitting there, and Draco looked at Ron, who coughed.

“I told mum that, well, you and Harry probably wouldn’t get many Christmas presents. She really likes knitting, well, it’s not much but...”

Draco pulled the wrapping back to reveal a hand-knitted dark blue jumper, with the letter ‘D’ on the front, in silver. He looked over at Harry, who was pulling his on- it was emerald green. Draco tugged it on over his shirt, feeling utterly emotional. Ron’s mum had knitted him, a Malfoy, a sweater for Christmas. The Weasleys hated the Malfoys! It was a blood feud that went back generations!

“I told her she probably couldn’t get close to your eyes- they’re so grey, but she said she would try, and well-” Draco interrupted Ron by giving him a tight hug.

“Thank you,” he choked out. The sort of silver-grey yarn matched his eyes perfectly, it was seemingly the only thing of his that wasn’t shadowed by Lucius. Draco had his mum’s eyes and he was fucking proud. Growing up, he’d been disappointed- Lucius’ eyes were pure silver, and Draco’s were always a bit dull- but he was glad now that he had the grey of the Blacks, rather the silvery, snake-like eyes of the Malfoys. They weren’t really snake-like, but that was how Draco saw them, now. Evil.

“It’s nothing, mate. Every year she makes us a sweater. And mine’s _always_ maroon,” complained Ron.

“Well, they can’t all be brown or blue,” Draco said, trying some of the homemade fudge Mrs. Weasley had sent him. “This is bloody amazing,” he said.

Ron’s cheeks were a bit pink.

Meanwhile, Harry had unwrapped something silvery and fluid-like, and it was spilling over the floor, where it lay in gleaming folds. Draco and Ron got up, and Ron gasped.

Draco simply laughed. So _that’s_ how Potter had always snuck around Hogwarts and never got in trouble, he had an invisibility cloak! Fucking Potter. Of course it had to be him.

 “I’ve heard of those,” Ron said, in a hushed voice, dropping the chocolate frog box, “If that’s what I think it is- they’re really rare, and really valuable.”

“What is it?” Harry said, picking the shining, silvery cloth off the floor.

“It’s an invisibility cloak,” said Draco, a look of awe on his face. He’d never even _touched_ one. “I’m sure it is- try it on.”

Harry threw the cloak around his shoulders and Draco laughed as Ron gave a yell. “It is!” shouted Ron. “Look down!”

Draco watched as Harry looked down at his feet, but they were gone. Harry dashed to the mirror. His head was suspended in mid-air, his body completely invisible. All of a sudden, Draco remembered the time in Hogsmeade when he’d seen Potter’s head floating in the snow- he must have been wearing this!

“There’s a note!” said Ron suddenly. “A note fell out of it!”

Harry pulled off the cloak and seized the letter. Draco came over to see. Written in narrow, loopy writing he sort-of recognized, but couldn’t remember, were the following words: ‘ _Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well. A Very Merry Christmas to you.’_

There was no signature. Draco stared at the note, trying to remember where he’d seen that handwriting before. Ron was admiring the cloak.

“I’d give anything for one of these,” he was saying. “Anything. What’s the matter?”

Draco looked to Harry, who was looking kind of strange.

“Nothing,” said Harry.

Before anyone could say or think anything else, the dormitory door was flung open and Fred and George Weasley bounded in. Harry stuffed the cloak quickly out of sight, and Draco did the same with the threatening letter that basically spelled out his disinheritance. He winced but listened as the Weasley twins started talking.

“Merry Christmas!” One said.

“Hey, look- Harry and Draco have got Weasley sweaters, too!”

Fred and George were wearing blue sweaters, like Draco’s, one with a large yellow F on it, the other a G.

“Brother,” Probably Fred said, kneeling before Draco, “Our lost triplet,” added George, probably. “How can you ever forgive us for abandoning you?” They chorused together.

Draco laughed. They had probably sensed something not right with him- they always went to great lengths to make him laugh.

“Why aren’t you wearing yours, Ron?” George demanded, standing up. “Come on, get it on, they’re lovely and warm.”

“I hate maroon,” Ron moaned half-heartedly as he pulled it over his head.

“You haven’t got a letter on yours,” George observed. “I suppose she thinks you don’t forget your name. But we’re not stupid- we know we’re called Gred, Dorge, and Fraco.”

“What’s all this noise?”

Percy Weasley stuck his head through the door, looking disapproving. He had clearly gotten halfway through unwrapping his presents as he, too, carried a lumpy sweater over his arm, which Fred seized.

“P for prefect! Get it on, Percy, come on, we’re all wearing ours, even Harry and Draco got one!”

“I -- don’t -- want,” said Percy thickly, as the twins forced the sweater over his head, knocking his glasses askew.

“And you’re not sitting with the prefects today, either,” said George. “Christmas is a time for family.”

They frog-marched Percy from the room, his arms pinned to his side by his sweater.

* * *

Draco had actually never stayed at Hogwarts for Christmas- and the feast they had that night was larger than anything the house-elves ever cooked up at Malfoy Manor. A hundred fat, roast turkeys; mountains of roast and boiled potatoes; platters of chipolatas; tureens of buttered peas, silver boats of thick, rich gravy and cranberry sauce- and stacks of wizard crackers every few feet along the table. Draco pulled a wizard cracker with George after being coaxed into it- he wasn’t too pleased about the blasts he heard up and down the table. Each one startled him no matter what and it was clear the anxiety had shown on his face, because George practically forced him into pulling one.

Inside, after waving away the cloud of blue smoke, was a Victorian top hat and about a dozen candied slugs. “Boring!” complained George, looking at Fred beside him, who had pulled a rear Admiral’s hat and a several live, white mice. Up at the High Table, Dumbledore had swapped his pointed wizard’s hat for a flowered bonnet, and was chuckling merrily at a joke Professor Flitwick had just read him.

Flaming Christmas puddings followed the turkey. Percy nearly broke his teeth on a silver sickle embedded in his slice. Draco watched Hagrid getting redder and redder in the face as he called for more wine, finally kissing Professor McGonagall on the cheek, who, to Draco’s amazement, giggled and blushed, her top hat lopsided.

When Draco, Harry, and Ron finally left the table, they were laden down with a stack of things out of the crackers, including a pack of nonexplodable, luminous balloons, a Grow-Your-Own-Warts kit, and an assortment of candies. The white mice had disappeared and Draco had a nasty feeling they were going to end up as Mrs. Norris’s Christmas dinner.

* * *

Draco, Harry, and the Weasleys spent a happy afternoon having a furious snowball fight on the grounds. Then, cold, wet, and gasping for breath, they returned to the fire in the Gryffindor common room, where Draco and Harry broke out their new chess sets by both losing spectacularly to Ron. Draco fared better, but his mind was on other things as he thought about what to write to his mother.

After a meal of turkey sandwiches, crumpets, trifle, and Christmas cake, everyone felt too full and sleepy to do much before bed except sit and watch Percy chase Fred and George all over Gryffindor tower because they’d stolen his prefect badge.

It had been a very good Christmas, save for the other stuff. Yet something had been nagging in the back of Draco’s mind all day. Not until he climbed into bed was he free to think about it: his mother and whatever his father was doing at home to make her act that way. Was he hurting her? He wouldn’t put it past him.

Ron, full of turkey and cake and with nothing mysterious to bother him, fell asleep almost as soon as he’d drawn the curtains of his four-poster. Harry was fussing with his new invisibility cloak, and Draco thought that he should probably leave him to it- but he was incredibly bothered. When Draco looked back at Harry, he was gone- and Draco crept out of the dormitory, down the stairs, across the common room, where Harry gave him perhaps the worst scare of his life.

“Boo!” Harry said, excitement written all over his face, but Draco’s eyes had gone wide and were sort of frozen. “Oh, sorry, forgot I shouldn’t do that,” Harry said, but Draco shook his head.

“It’s fine,” he said, and plastered a grin to his face. “Were you about to head out for a little night-time wandering? Mind if I join you?”

“Nope,” Harry’s voice was a whisper, “Just think of all the places we could go! Filch would never even know!”

“I know,” Draco grinned, then something in his expression changed. “Hey, maybe we could go in the Restricted Section? We could finally find out who Flamel is!”

“Brilliant,” Harry grinned, and threw the cloak over the both of them.


	17. Chapter 17

The library was pitch-black and very eerie. Draco lit his wand to see his way along the rows of books. The wand looked as if it was floating along in mid-air, and even though Draco could feel his arm supporting it, the sight gave him the creeps.

The Restricted Section was right at the back of the library. Stepping carefully over the rope that separated these books from the rest of the library, Draco and Harry peered at the titles.

They didn’t tell them much. Their peeling, faded gold letters spelled words in old languages- Old and Middle English, some were in _Medieval French-_ what kind of student came to Hogwarts knowing that? Some had no title at all. One book had a dark stain on it that looked horribly like blood. The hair on the back of Draco’s neck prickled. Maybe he was imagining it, maybe not, but he thought a faint whispering was coming from the books, as though they knew someone was there who shouldn’t be.

They had to start somewhere. Harry looked along the bottom shelf for an interesting looking book. A large black and silver volume had caught his eye. He pulled it out with difficulty, because it was very heavy, and that was when Draco threw his hand out, hissing “Don’t!”

Harry looked at him, and Draco explained, “I’ve seen that book at home. It’s enchanted- some of them are charmed to scream when unknowing people open them- supposed to guard the library. See the volume number here? That’s so you know it’s a trick.”

“Oh. Sorry,” said Harry, but Draco only smiled and pulled down a safe book for Harry, and one in French for himself. Flamel didn’t seem like an English name, to him- maybe he had to do with achievements on the Continent?

They leafed through their books in silence, Draco occasionally looking up to keep watch- the book was about Dark Magic, maybe Flamel was dark- although that didn’t seem likely.

A meowing sound caused him to snap the book shut, and shove it back on the shelf. Harry had gotten up, too, and they threw the cloak over themselves- it was Mrs. Norris, and Draco wanted so badly to kick her. But Harry had let his huge volume fall to the floor in the hurry, and it made a large ‘thump’ on the stone floor.

Draco and Harry ran for it. They passed Filch in the doorway; Filch’s pale, wild eyes looked straight through them, and they slipped under Filch’s outstretched arm and streaked off up the corridor, perhaps it was because they were spooked but it was better to be safe than to be caught by Filch.

They came to a sudden halt in front of a tall suit of armour. Draco and Harry had been so busy getting away from the library, Draco had taken Harry’s hand to lead him through the castle, but he hadn’t really paid attention to where he was going. It was dark and he didn’t recognize where he was at all. There were probably dozens of suits of armour in the castle, so that didn’t help him at all.

“You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if anyone was wandering around at night, and somebody’s been in the library, Restricted Section.”

 Filch’s voice was near and Draco could hear Snape beside him, as the man replied, “The Restricted Section? Well, they can’t be far, we’ll catch them.”

 Draco dragged Harry through a door that stood ajar to their left. They squeezed through it, holding their breath, and to Draco’s relief they managed to get inside the room, just as Snape and Filch passed by. They walked straight past without noticing anything. That had been close, very close. It was a few seconds before Draco noticed anything about the room they had hidden in.

It looked like an unused classroom. The dark shapes of desks and chairs were piled against the walls, and there was an upturned wastepaper basket- but propped against the wall facing them was something that didn’t look as if it belonged there, something that looked as if someone had just put it there to keep it out of the way.

It was a magnificent mirror, as high of the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet. There was an inscription carved around the top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. His panic fading now that there was no sound of Filch and Snape, Draco moved nearer to the mirror, as if to inspect it closer.

Draco stepped in front of it, and he had to clap his hands to his mouth to stop himself from screaming. He whirled around. His heart was pounding far more furiously than when they were running from Filch and Snape- for he had seen not only himself in the mirror, but Potter, Granger, Weasley, his mother, what looked like her cousins perhaps, and the Order of the Phoenix behind him- Harry’s mum and dad, Draco could tell because he looked _just_ like his father. Only the Harry in the mirror wasn’t his Harry- it looked at a first glance to be Potter from the first timeline- but looking again, Draco knew it was his Harry, but older. Same with Hermione, and Ron. He saw himself as a seventeen-year-old, wearing short sleeves- no Dark Mark. Everyone in the mirror looked so happy- he couldn’t see any stress clouding their gazes.

He looked behind him again- the room was empty. Breathing very fast, he turned slowly back to the mirror. There he was, but it wasn’t his white and scared-looking eleven-year-old self. There, reflected behind him, were the others. Draco looked over his shoulder, but no one was there. He couldn’t believe it. The sight of everything- everyone- it was enough to make him cry.

Harry was standing beside him, and he was so close to the mirror now that his nose was nearly touching that of his reflection. “Mum?” he whispered. “Dad?”

Draco wasn’t sure if Harry was seeing the same thing as him- it looked like he was staring at Narcissa and Draco, while Harry’s mum was closer to the right, for him.

He took a step back from the mirror and started to think. Why was this mirror here? He was seeing Harry’s parents, and his mum, standing next to Draco. Lucius was nowhere in sight. The Weasleys were standing in the back, Fred and George grinning widely behind Ron. None of them were dead. Professor Lupin, he was there- standing beside a purple-haired woman that Draco had never met but knew was his mother’s sister’s daughter. That made them cousins, right? In fact, he had seen a girl who looked rather like her sitting at the Hufflepuff table a few weeks back- was this the same girl? His cousin? And her mother, standing beside her? Was this his Aunt Andromeda?

Draco had a powerful kind of ache inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness. Some of these people were dead in this world, but even more so in the world he left behind. And here they were, smiling happily at him- was that Sirius Black standing next to his mother? And his brother, what was his name? Mother talked about him a lot. _Quick, think. It was something really weird, er-_ Regulus. Regulus Black. The men were rather tall and handsome, with long wavy hair. Draco felt like growing his hair out like that- he was rather jealous of their dark hair, because Draco knew if he grew it out he would look even more like his father. _Maybe if I didn’t slick it back, it would look different,_ thought Draco. _Probably not though. Maybe I could just dye it._

How long he stood there, he didn’t know. The reflections did not fade and Draco and Harry looked and looked until a distant noise brought them back to their senses. They couldn’t stay there, they had to find their way back to bed. Draco tore his eyes away from their faces and heard Harry say something, but he didn’t quite hear him. They hurried from the room and made their way to bed, in silence.

* * *

“You could have woken me up,” said Ron, crossly.

“You can come tonight, I’m going back, I want to show you the mirror,” said Harry, pulling on his shoes.

“I’d like to see your mum and dad,” Ron said eagerly.

“And I want to see all your family, all the Weasleys, you’ll be able to show me your other brothers and everyone.”

They made their way down to breakfast, and Draco was totally silent. He was haunted by the faces he saw last night, he wanted to see them again, but he knew he couldn’t without Harry there. His mum and Sirius and Regulus and his Aunt Andromeda (who he never met but kind of wanted to now) had the same faces and eyes, he wanted to study them more.

“You can see them any old time,” said Ron, grabbing some bacon, “Just come ‘round my house this summer. Anyway, maybe it only shows dead people.”

“No, I saw my mum and her sister and cousins, and they’re still alive,” said Draco, his plate empty, “Only I think one of them isn’t. But they were there, just the same.”

“Your mum has a sister?” Harry asked, “What’s she like?”

“Dunno, haven’t met her,” said Draco, “She, uh, married a muggle-born and we never talk about her.”

“That’s bloody insane,” said Ron. “Shame that you didn’t find anything about Flamel, though. You both should have some bacon or something, why aren’t you eating anything?”

Draco couldn’t eat. He had seen his mother’s family and Harry’s mum and dad and everyone who died in the other timeline and would be seeing them again tonight. He suddenly didn’t care about Flamel, it didn’t seem very important anymore. Who cared what the three-headed-dog was guarding? What did it matter if Quirrell stole it, really?

“Are you all right?” said Ron. “You look odd.”

What Draco feared most was that he might not be able to find the mirror room again. He knew it had to be somewhere on the sixth floor. With Ron covered in the cloak, too, they had to walk much more slowly the next night. They tried retracting Harry and Draco’s route from the library, wandering around the dark passageways for nearly an hour.

“I’m freezing,” said Ron. “Let’s forget it and go back.”

“No!” Harry hissed, he was just as adamant about finding it again as Draco. “I know it’s here somewhere.”

They passed the ghost of a tall witch gliding in the opposite direction, but no one else. Just as Ron started moaning that his feet were dead with cold, Harry spotted the suit of armour.

“It’s here- just here- yes!”

They pushed the door open. Harry dropped the cloak from around his shoulders and ran to the mirror, Draco just beside him.

There they were. His mother and everyone else beamed at the sight of him. The Weasley twins, older, with mischievous smiles, and Harry and Ron and Hermione, and his mum’s cousins, they were all there.

Draco had thought about it again and now that he could properly see Sirius Black’s face, he might recognize him and his brother as the little toddlers in his mum’s family album- running after a seven or eight-year-old Narcissa with her pigtails. Draco frowned.

He knew that Sirius was Harry’s godfather, everyone knew who was supposed to have betrayed the Potters- but...had Sirius really done all that? Draco remembered the war, and knew that he escaped from Azkaban in his third year of Hogwarts, but-

Oh no.

 _“Do it Draco! Noooooow!”_ The voice of Aunt Bella startled him and Draco started. _She killed him. Didn’t she?_ After his father was caught in the Department of Mysteries, and imprisoned (it was what started Draco’s mess in the first place!) Bellatrix escaped, while his father was caught. And Bellatrix gloated about how she killed the great “Sirius Black,” and Draco hadn’t put much thought into it because he had so many other things to worry about, but _fuck._

If Sirius Black had been fighting on the side of the Order in the Department of Mysteries, then he truly was innocent of everything he was imprisoned for. Why else would he have switched sides and fought for Potter, protected Potter? After all, he was supposed to be insane. But he’d died then and there. He was never given a chance to explain himself.

“See?” Harry was whispering. Draco blinked, and nodded.

“I can’t see anything,” Ron said.

“Look! Look at them all... there are loads of them...”

“I can only see you.”

Draco frowned. “Look in it properly, go on, stand where I am,” He said, without thinking to Ron, and stepped back. The image was haunting him- he’d been thinking about it all day. But he’d only just now made the connection that not everything was right about Harry’s godfather being imprisoned.

Draco should have asked Granger more, in the old timeline! Then he would know, and not be walking in practically blind! Was this man innocent, or did he only show up in the mirror because he was his mother’s family? If so, shouldn’t Bellatrix be in there, too?

With Ron in front of the mirror, he couldn’t see them anymore, just Ron in his paisley pyjamas.

Ron, though, was staring transfixed at his image.

“Look at me!” he said.

“Can you see all your family standing around you?” Draco demanded, somewhat quietly.

“No- I’m alone- but I’m different- I look older- and I’m head boy!”

“What?” said Draco.

“I am- I’m wearing the badge like Bill used to- and I’m holding the house cup and the Quidditch cup- I’m Quidditch captain, too!”

“You can’t be head boy _and_ Qudditch captain,” Draco said, “You’d be so busy, you’d hardly get anything done! I think that’s called absenteeism-”

Ron tore his eyes away from this splendid sight to look excitedly at the both of them, completely ignoring Draco’s comment, “Do you think this mirror shows the future?”

“How can it? All my family are dead- let me have another look-” said Harry, standing in front of Ron.

“You had it to yourself all last night, give me a bit more time.”

“You’re only holding the Quidditch cup, what’s interesting about that? I want to see my parents.”

“Don’t push me-”

“Mates,” said Draco, feebly, for they were both squabbling, “Guys!”

A sudden noise outside in the corridor put an end to their discussion. They hadn’t realized how loudly they had been talking.

“Quick!”

Ron threw the cloak back over them as the luminous eyes of Mrs. Norris came ‘round the door. The three boys stood quite still, all thinking the same thing- did the cloak work on cats? After what seemed an age, she turned and left.

“This isn’t safe- she might have gone for Filch, I bet she heard us. Come on.”

And Draco pulled the both of them out of the room.

 

* * *

 

The snow still hadn’t melted the next morning.

“Want to play chess, Harry?” said Ron. Draco was sitting in the nice big chair by the fire, the ones the seventh years usually grabbed, but now, they were free. Harry sat on the couch beside him, and Ron had come down from the dormitory with his chess set.

“No,” said Harry.

Ron looked uneasily at Draco, who shrugged. “Why don’t we go down and visit Hagrid?” Ron tried another suggestion.

“No... you go...”

“I know what you’re thinking about, Harry, that mirror. Don’t go back tonight.” Ron started, but Harry looked up.

“Why not?” Harry said.

Ron looked uneasy. “I dunno, I’ve just got a bad feeling about it- and anyway, you’ve had too many close shaves already. Filch, Snape, and Mrs. Norris are wandering around. So what if they can’t see you? What if they walk into you? What if you knock something over?”

“You sound like Hermione,” Harry said.

“I’m serious, Harry, don’t go. And that goes for you too, Draco.”

Draco looked up once, as if to say _what did I do?_

* * *

 

That third night, Harry and Draco found their way more quickly than before. Harry was dragging Draco so fast he knew they were making more noise than was wise, but they didn’t meet anyone.

And there was his mother and her cousins and adult-Potter and Granger and Weasley again- only they were clearly this timeline’s Harry and Hermione and Ron, but older. They were smiling at him and the Weasley twins were nodding happily. Draco sank down to sit on the floor in front of the mirror, with eleven-year-old Harry. There was nothing to stop Draco from staying here all night. Nothing at all.

Except-

“So- back again, Harry, Draco?”

Draco felt as though his insides had turned to ice. He looked behind him. Sitting at one of the desks by the wall was none other than Albus Dumbledore. Draco and Harry must have walked straight past him, so desperate to get to the mirror they hadn’t noticed him.

_A pair of twinkling blue eyes, a silver beard, a flash of green light... “Good evening, Draco.”_

_His aunt stood behind him, her face crazed and hungering for blood. The darkness of the Astronomy Tower... “Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.”_

_Dumbledore, falling, falling, failing...Draco’s godfather stepping in front, carrying out the task..._

_His failure. Draco’s failure. Dumbledore’s calm voice as he told Draco that he didn’t have to do it, and he could protect him. Draco as he explained in fervor that the Dark Lord would find him. His family. Kill his family. Standing against the ramparts, very white in the face..._

_Dumbledore, falling, falling, failing..._

“-we didn’t see you, sir.” Harry said, quickly.

“Strange how near-sighted being invisible can make you,” said Dumbledore, and Draco was unnerved to see that he was smiling.

_Draco Malfoy did nothing but stare at Albus Dumbledore who, incredibly, smiled._

_“Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.”_

He blinked back tears. He occluded to the point he knew that no one could see his thoughts, his real thoughts, but he could still see them.

“So,” said Dumbledore, slipping off the desk to sit on the floor with Harry and Draco, “you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised.”

“I didn’t know it was called that, Sir.” Harry said. Draco was looking down, trying not to make eye-contact. He couldn’t look. Not when-

 _Dumbledore, falling, falling, failing._..

“But I expect you’ve realized by now what it does, hmm? Draco?”

“Huh?” said Draco, blinking away the scene, “It- well- it shows me my mum and her- her family.”

“And Harry?”

Harry mumbled, “It- well- it shows me my family-”

“And it showed your friend Ron himself as head boy.”

“How did you know-?”

“I don’t need a cloak to become invisible,” said Dumbledore gently. “Now, can you think what the Mirror of Erised shows us all?”

“It shows us what we want,” said Draco, understanding. He felt very depressed.

“Yes and no,” said Dumbledore quietly. “It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts. Draco, you, cast away from your family, see them smiling in front of you. Harry, you, have never known your family so you see them standing around you. Ronald Weasley, who has always been overshadowed by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the best of all of them. However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.”

“The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, and I ask both of you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don’t you both put on that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?”

Draco and Harry stood up. “Sir- Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you something?”

“Obviously, you’ve just done so,” Dumbledore smiled at Harry. “You both may ask me one more thing, however.”

“Sir- I don’t see my entire family in the mirror,” said Draco, starting off. “I only see my mum, her cousins Sirius and Regulus, and her sister, Andromeda, and her daughter. I can see Harry’s mum and dad, too, and some other man I’ve never met. Why do I see them when I know I’ve got more family than that?”

Dumbledore simply stared at him, a gleam of something Draco couldn’t quite place in his eyes. “Perhaps it is only a matter of the light inside your heart. I do think I have misjudged you, Draco. You may have been born into a dark house, but knew what was right and what was wrong from the very beginning. Such traits I also observed in Sirius Black, before he walked down the wrong path.”

“But... why would I see him in the mirror if he chose that dark path himself?” asked Draco, his face troubled, watching Dumbledore for any sign of well, anything, really. But the ancient Headmaster remained still.

“Perhaps, Draco, that you will have to go looking for that answer yourself,” Dumbledore suggested (wow. Great assurance from an old man who _clearly_ did not know). “Harry? Did you have something to ask me?”

Harry looked from Dumbledore to Draco, and blurted, “What do you see when you look in the mirror, Professor?”

Draco’s eyes fell on the man who he once tried to murder. He swallowed, wondering what his answer would be.

“I?” said Dumbledore, looking wistful, “I see myself holding a pair of thick, woollen socks.”

Draco stared.

“One can never have enough socks,” said Dumbledore. “Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.”

It was only when he was back in bed that it struck Draco that Dumbledore might not have been quite truthful. His initial reaction had been, _this man is really as mad as they say._ But perhaps not- Dumbledore was hiding behind this madness, and who knew what lay within? All Draco knew was that he could never, ever trust him.


	18. Chapter 18

 Dumbledore had convinced Draco not to go looking for the Mirror of Erised again, and for the rest of the Christmas holidays the invisibility cloak stayed folded at the bottom of Harry’s trunk- Draco’s best friend, fortunately, felt exactly the same way, so Draco couldn’t be tempted. Draco wished he could forget what he’d seen in the mirror as easily, but he couldn’t. His nightmares returned, after stalling for what seemed like three days, and over and over again, he dreamed about Bellatrix torturing Granger, the Astronomy Tower, the Battle, and so much more. He heard the Dark Lord’s voice every night and he woke up and just sobbed. He’d gotten better at silencing charms and replaced one every time he jolted awake, which was three times on a good night. The boys didn’t hear a thing.

“You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could drive you mad,” said Ron to Harry, when Harry told Ron and Draco that he, too, was having dreams. Draco had simply stared, worryingly at him, when Harry told him that he was dreaming of his parents disappearing in a flash of green light, while a high voice cackled with laughter.

Hermione, who came back the day before term started, took a different view of things. She was torn between horror at the idea of Draco and Harry being out of bed, roaming the school three nights in a row (“If Filch had caught you!”), and was disappointed that they hadn’t at least found out who Nicolas Flamel was.

When Harry told her about his dreams, Hermione had a suspicious look on her face and turned to Draco, “What about you?”

Draco looked down, feeling unnaturally cold and warm at the same time. The other three knew Draco had nightmares, it was well-known in the dorm, too. But none of them had pried or asked after him most days. The fact that Hermione knew, that Hermione remembered- it was rather...touching?

 _Fucking Merlin._ These Gryffindors were turning Draco into a right sod. And it didn’t help that the stress was really getting to him, now- they had almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel in a library book, even though Draco was still sure that he’d read the name somewhere. Once term had started, they were back to skimming through books for ten minutes during their breaks. It was mostly Draco, Hermione, and Ron skimming, however, as Harry had even less time than the others, because Quidditch practice had started again.

One night, Draco and Ron were sitting in the Gryffindor common room playing chess, while Hermione sat at the same table with a very thick book. Draco, sadly, with his extra and super-secret age advantage over Ron, made it so that they were...only very evenly matched. Ah, well. Can’t get them all.

When Harry eventually trudged through the portrait door, Draco had just taken Ron’s rook. “Don’t talk to me for a moment,” said Draco when Harry sat down next to him, “I need to concen-” He caught sight of Harry’s face, then his focus was lost completely. “What’s the matter?”

Harry sat down and spoke very quietly, so that no one else could hear. And Harry told Draco and the other two about Snape’s sudden, sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee.

“Don’t play,” said Hermione at once. Draco sat back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. He started thinking about the _first_ time, when Snape refereed a Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin sometime back in his first year. Was it coming up?

“Say you’re ill,” said Ron.

“Pretend to break your leg,” Hermione suggested.

“Really break your leg,” said Ron, and Draco snorted.

“I can’t,” said Harry “There isn’t a reserve Seeker. If I back out, Gryffindor can’t play at all.”

At that moment, before Draco could say anything worthwhile, Neville Longbottom stumbled into the common room. How he had managed to climb through the portrait hole was anyone’s guess, because his legs had been stuck together with what Draco recognized at once as the Leg-Locker Curse. He must have had to bunny hop all the way up to Gryffindor tower.

Everyone fell over laughing, but it must have been an off day for Draco, who only sat there staring at the floor, as Hermione leapt up to perform the counter-curse. Neville’s legs sprang apart and he got to his feet, trembling. “What happened?” Hermione asked him as he came to sit with Harry, Ron, and Draco.

“Nott,” said Neville shakily. “I met him outside the library. He said he’d been looking for someone to practice that on.”

Draco’s anxiety was rising. It seemed that every encounter with Nott was supposed to replace anything awful that Draco had done in the other timeline. Draco was _done_ with being the bully, the git, the coward. The spineless child who thought he could slay his own headmaster was long behind him, it would _never_ come to fruition. Ever.

But Nott reminded him, every time. And every time this occurred, Draco would play along with Harry and Ron, pretending that he wasn’t worried and Nott was just a very annoying pest that never stopped bothering them. But Nott _was_ bothering him. Nott was just one example of everything Draco was trying to avoid by being in this new timeline.

“I don’t want more trouble,” Neville was mumbling- Hermione was trying to get him to go to Professor McGonagall. But it sounded like Neville was going to cry and Draco honestly felt like he would, too, in a moment. His throat was getting that sort of lumpy that he certainly did _not_ like. And his stomach was feeling that sort of panic that he normally attributed to flashbacks of that night on the Astronomy Tower. But he didn’t hear anything.

It had just been a very bad day. He couldn’t really explain why.

“I’ll go with you,” Draco blurted out, and the three of them looked up, seeing him. But his cheeks were surely turning pink as Draco looked down, not quite mumbling, “I should probably talk to her about er, flooing my mum. I’ve been worried. We could go, if you want.”

Neville looked surprised, but not entirely receptive. “I don’t want to cause more trouble,” he repeated, as if it was his own personal mantra or something.

“That’s fine, too,” Draco said, “But think of it this way, will you? Nott, he’s used to walking all over people. Just because he’s used to it doesn’t mean you should lie down in front of him and make it easier.”

Ron was nodding along. “Yeah, you’ve got to stand up to him, Neville!”

Neville, again, didn’t seem to be listening to their advice. “There’s no need to tell me I’m not brave enough to be in Gryffindor, Nott’s already done that,” Neville choked out. Draco exchanged glances with Harry, who was searching his robe pockets.

Harry pulled out a chocolate frog and gave it to Neville, who looked as though he might cry.

“You’re worth twelve of Nott,” Harry said. “The Sorting Hat chose you for Gryffindor, didn’t it? And where’s Nott? In stinking Slytherin.”

Neville’s lips twitched into a weak smile as he unwrapped the frog.

“Thanks, Harry...I think I’ll go to bed, Draco. D’you want the card, you collect them, don’t you?”

As Neville walked away, he left the card on the table in front of Harry.

“Dumbledore again,” said Harry, “He was the first one I ever-”

Draco was about to lose himself in thought once more, when Harry gasped. Draco looked at his friend, who was staring at the back of the card. He made eye contact with Harry.

“I’ve found him!” he whispered. “I’ve found Flamel! I told you I’d read the name somewhere before, I read it on the train coming here- listen to this: ‘Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel!”

Draco and Hermione jumped to their feet. “That book you were reading!” Draco said, and Hermione breathed in. She hadn’t looked so excited since they’d gotten back the marks for their very first piece of homework.

“Stay there!” she said, and she sprinted up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories. Draco watched Harry and Ron exchange mystified looks before she was dashing back, an enormous old book in her arms.

“I never thought to look in here!” she whispered excitedly. “I got this out the library weeks ago for a bit of light reading.”

“Light?” said Ron, but Hermione told him to be quiet until she’d looked something up, and started flicking frantically through the pages, muttering to herself.

“I borrowed it for our last potions essay,” Draco reminded her. “Did you find it?”

“I knew it! I knew it!”

“Are we allowed to speak yet?” said Ron grumpily. Hermione ignored him.

“Nicolas Flamel,” she whispered dramatically, “is the only known maker of the Philosopher’s Stone!”

This didn’t have quite the effect she expected on Harry and Ron.

“The what?” they said.

“Oh, honestly, don’t you two read? Look- read that, there.”

She pushed the book toward them, and Harry and Ron read. Draco looked along too, for fun: _The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Philosopher’s Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. The stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal._

_There have been many reports of the Philosopher’s Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight)._

“See?” said Hermione, when Harry and Ron had finished. “The dog must be guarding Flamel’s Philosopher’s Stone! I bet he asked Dumbledore to keep it safe for him, because they’re friends and he knew someone was after it, that’s why he wanted the Stone moved out of Gringotts!”

“A stone that makes gold and stops you from ever dying!” said Harry. “No wonder someone’s after it! Anyone would want it.”

“And no wonder we couldn’t find Flamel in that Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry,” said Ron. “He’s not exactly recent if he’s six hundred and sixty-five, is he?”

* * *

The next morning in Defense Against the Dark Arts, while copying down different ways to treat werewolf bites, Draco was still listening to Harry and Ron discuss what they’d do with a Philosopher’s Stone if they had one. It wasn’t until Ron said he’d buy his own Quidditch team that Harry got his attention for something more important.

“I’m going to play,” he told them. “If I don’t all the Slytherins will think I’m just too scared to face Snape. I’ll show them... it’ll really wipe the smiles off their faces if we win.”

“Just as long as we’re not wiping you off the field,” said Hermione.

As the match drew nearer, however, Harry seemed to become more and more nervous, whatever he told Draco. From what Draco heard, the team wasn’t too calm, either. The idea of overtaking Slytherin in the house championship would be great, in Harry’s words, but how would they be allowed to, with such a biased referee?

This put Draco in a difficult position, because Snape had been his head of house once, too. Snape had saved him from something that surely would have sent him down the completely wrong path (although he’d been on one already).

But Draco had experienced a fair share of cold-shouldering from Snape, lately, too. So it wasn’t too bad to sit there and listen, somewhat satisfied, to the many Gryffindors lambasting his practices. Snape was truly biased toward any Gryffindor. It didn’t matter that Draco had once been on the receiving end of his favouritism, many times- once he experienced the brunt end of it, well.

Potions lessons were turning into a sort of weekly torture. Snape was so horrible to Harry that it wasn’t even funny. Draco didn’t know whether he was imagining it or not, but the four of them seemed to keep running into Snape wherever they went. At times, Draco even wondered whether Snape was following Harry, trying to catch Harry on his own. Could Snape possibly know they’d found out about the Philosopher’s Stone? Draco didn’t see how he could-

Unless.

_Fucking Merlin._

_Fuck._

_Fucking. Hell._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this was an underwhelming chapter. I had everything planned out but I didn't have much time to write it; I'm sitting onstage right now and we're doing our sitzprobe for Into the Woods. So. Fun fact. I plan to get back on my weekly update schedule sometime soon, I just need more time to build up an adequate number of chapters. Hope you have a good night/morning/afternoon xx


	19. Chapter 19

Snape must have been using legilimency on the students he taught- Draco, of course, had nothing to worry about, but if he was reading the surface thoughts of his friends, he could still have found out things that he would have rather kept private. Like his father cutting him out of his will, their investigations about the Philosopher’s Stone, and even...

Was Snape passing information back to Lucius? Was that how Lucius found out that Draco was spending time with Harry or Ron or Hermione?  They must still be in contact now, of course, they worked together in the war: Draco remembered some tidbit from his father at dinner at some point in time, gloating about how he took Severus under his wing in school, even though Lucius had left by the time Snape was a second year. There was no way he was corrupted that early, no way that Lucius brought Snape into the Death Eaters. But Snape had been close to the Malfoys from the time he left school- perhaps he and his father were keeping their correspondence now.

Of course, the information could have been passed back through Nott or any one of the other Slytherins via their parents- Draco entertained the thought that Lucius perhaps was embarrassed at a dinner party, or maybe wasn’t invited to a ministry social because of him.

_Since when was I aiming to be an embarrassment?_ Draco’s thoughts were very self-aware, in the sense that he recognized who he was and who he was trying to be. But never in a million years would the old Draco have wanted that. That was the Slytherin Draco, the Death Eater, the child who would do anything to gain his father’s, and by extension, the Dark Lord’s approval. This new Gryffindor Draco would do anything for his friends, he would do anything to remain in the light, would do anything from keeping the nightmares of his old life out of his waking moments. But sometimes moments would slip through the cracks.

Draco saw Granger with his aunt looming over her, brandishing her wand in one hand and a knife in the other. He saw Potter’s swollen face- Draco knew that it was him but Draco was afraid that it had been. He heard Weasley’s cries from the dungeons. He heard Ollivander’s cries from the dungeons. He saw the Dark Lord, stalking the foyer.

Draco lived in fear. He saw Dumbledore, _falling, falling, falling..._ and Crabbe in the Room of Requirement, lighting the fire that would lead to his demise. He saw Crabbe, _falling, falling, falling..._

_“Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.”_

Draco remembered his mother, how she cried every night his father was in Azkaban. But now, Narcissa was preparing for something, some drastic action that would either leave Lucius or Draco alone.

Draco, alone...

He often thought most nights, _maybe I shouldn’t have stumbled on the wrong path. Maybe I shouldn’t be back._ But was it awful of him to think that he was happier, here? While there was, perhaps, another timeline where there was no Draco, and his mother was alone, after everything that happened. Maybe he was happier here, but it was at the price of the other timeline.

Draco hated dwelling on these thoughts, because they only made him feel worse. He really was happy here. And if only minor things, like Snape refereeing a Quidditch match was making him stressed, then he was glad to have this and not Dumbledore or Crabbe or Granger or Potter or the Dark Lord.

* * *

 

“Now, don’t forget, it’s Locomotor Mortis,” Hermione muttered to Draco, as Ron slipped his wand up his sleeve.

“I know,” Ron snapped. “Don’t nag.”

The three of them had found a place in the stands next to Neville, who couldn’t understand why any of them looked so grim and worried, or why they had all brought their wands to the match. Ron and Hermione had been practicing the Leg-Locker Curse in secret- they’d gotten the idea from Nott using it on Neville, and were ready to use it on Snape if he showed any sign of wanting to hurt Harry. Draco didn’t need to practice it but he did for the good of the group as a whole, although Ron was moaning about his genius more than necessary.

There was a great cheer from all sides of the stadium as the teams marched out onto the field. Ron elbowed Draco and that was when he noticed that Dumbledore was in the stands as well.

“I’ve never seen Snape look so mean,” he told them. “Look- they’re off- Ouch!”

Someone had poked Ron in the back of the head. It was Theodore Nott.

“Oh sorry, Weasley, didn’t see you there.”

Nott was standing haughtily beside Pansy and Millicent Bulstrode. Honestly, it was a wonder that Nott even dropped Crabbe and Goyle at all, because now, the three of them looked like they could all be a posse of teenage girls. But Draco digressed.

“Wonder how long Potter’s going to stay on his broom this time? Anyone want a bet? What about you, Weasley?”

Ron didn’t answer; Snape had just awarded Hufflepuff a penalty because George Weasley had hit a Bludger at him. Hermione, who had one hand crossed in her lap and the other holding on tightly to Draco, was squinting fixedly at Harry, who was circling the game like a hawk, looking for the snitch.

“You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor team?” said Nott, loudly, a few minutes later, as Snape awarded Hufflepuff another penalty for no reason at all, “It’s people they feel sorry for. See, there’s Potter, who’s got no parents, then there’s the Weasleys, who’ve got no money- you should be on team, Longbottom, you’ve got no brains.”

Neville went bright red as Pansy Parkinson let out a gasp of shrill laughter. It was enough to make Draco’s ears bleed.

“I’m worth twelve of you, Nott,” Neville stammered, and Draco’s eyes immediately went to the floor, as it often was in these moments.

The girls and Nott howled with laughter, but Ron, still not daring to take his eyes from the game, said, “You tell him, Neville.”

Pansy snorted a few more times before saying while still laughing, “Longbottom, if brains were gold you’d be poorer than Weasley, and that’s saying something.”

Draco tried to ignore them, but Hermione was squeezing his arm tighter than before.

“Harry-” She was saying.

“What? Where?”

Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive, which drew gasps and cheers from the crowd. Hermione stood up, dragging Draco with her, as Harry streaked toward the ground like a bullet.

“You’re in luck, Weasley, Potter’s obviously spotted some money on the ground!” said Nott. Draco was about to turn around and firmly reprimand the three Slytherins, but he must have been too slow, because before he knew what was happening, Ron was on top of Nott, wrestling him to the ground. Neville had hesitated, then clambered over the back of his seat to help. Draco wanted to turn around too, but Hermione was still pulling on him and screaming, “Come on, Harry!”

Draco laughed nervously, but it was more because of how tightly she was holding on. Hermione didn’t even notice Nott or Ron rolling around under her seat, or the shrill screams from Pansy, or the whirl of fists that was Neville and Bulstrode.

Hermione jumped up and down in the next second, as Harry pulled out of the dive, his arm raised in triumph, the Snitch clasped in his hand.

“It must be a record! There’s no way the Snitch has ever been caught this quickly!” said Draco, as the stands erupted.

“I know! Gryffindor is now in the lead!” Hermione said, dancing up and down on her seat. Draco was almost forced to smile- the game was over; it had barely lasted five minutes. He watched the Gryffindor team land in front of all the students pilling onto the field.

“Come on,” said Draco.

“Ron! Ron! Where are you, we’ve done it! Gryffindor is in the lead!” Draco had never seen Hermione get so riled up about Quidditch before.

As they made to leave the stands, Draco turned around for Ron, whose nose was bleeding heavily. Neville was slumped on one of the benches, evidently taken down by Bulstrode. Ah, well.

“We should get you two to Pomfrey, don’t you think?” Draco said. “Come on, help me move him.”

 

* * *

 

When Ron’s nose had stopped bleeding, Draco, Ron, and Hermione left the Hospital Wing and Neville behind. He was supposedly still out, but Draco was curious as to where Harry had gone. It had been almost half an hour.

They were just about to head up to the tower when they met Harry on the grand staircase. “Harry, where have you been?” Hermione squeaked.

“We won! You won! We won!” shouted Ron, thumping Harry on the back. “And I gave Nott a black eye and Neville tried to take on Millicent Bulstrode! He’s still out cold but Madam Pomfrey says he’ll be all right- talk about showing Slytherin!”

“We’re going to have a party in the common room,” said Draco. “Fred and George told me if you guys won, they’d steal a bunch of food from the kitchens.”

"Never mind that now,” said Harry breathlessly. “Let’s find an empty room, you wait ‘til you hear this...”

They found an empty classroom on the first floor. Harry shut the door behind them, and told them what he’d just seen and heard in the Forbidden Forest.

“Snape was there, but he wasn’t alone. Quirrell was there, too. He was stuttering worse than ever. But Snape, he mentioned the Philosopher’s Stone, and he asked Quirrell if he figured out how to get past Fluffy! So we were right, it is the Philosopher’s Stone, but Snape’s trying to force Quirrell to help him get it. He said something else about Quirrell’s ‘hocus pocus,’ I reckon there are other things guarding the stone apart from Fluffy, loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrell would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell that Snape needs to break through-”

“Wait, wait, slow down. So you mean Snape is truly after the stone? What about Quirrell? I thought he and Snape might’ve been working together,” Draco said, not really believing it.

“The Stone’s only safe as long as Quirrell stands up to Snape,” Hermione said in alarm, not hearing him.

“But Snape and Quirrell are trying to steal it together, remember? They were the ones that cursed Harry’s broom,” Ron said, thinking. “Draco, didn’t you say Quirrell mysteriously disappeared after the troll got let in at Halloween?”

“Wait, wait,” Draco said. They weren’t listening to each other. “What if- but Snape-”

“No, Draco,” Hermione said, “Harry’s right. Snape is after the stone.”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” sighed Draco. “I thought we agreed that it was Snape and Quirrell who cursed Harry’s broom in his first Quidditch match. If they were both trying to curse him, why would Snape be forcing Quirrell to tell him how to get past Fluffy They’re working together, I thought?”

“Maybe Quirrell’s his sort of lackey,” Harry suggested. “Maybe Snape wants Quirrell to get the stone _for_ him.”

“Maybe,” said Draco. _Perhaps this is a step in the right direction. But I don’t get it, why would Snape be trying to steal the stone at all? If he was, it must be for Voldemort. I can’t see Snape getting after eternal life and gold. But.._.

“Okay, here’s what I’m thinking,” said Draco. “We know two things about Quirrell and Snape. One is that they both were trying to curse Harry at the first Quidditch match. Second is that they were talking in the forest.” _But maybe Snape isn’t even” evil” at all,_ thought Draco. _He certainly wasn’t when I knew him. He was always a double agent, I thought. Especially from what Granger said in the courtrooms after the war. Maybe he’s trying to get information about how far Quirrell has come, in a way that is subtle enough that Quirrell believes Snape is on his side. But if that’s true...then that means..._

“Snape was a Death Eater in the first war,” Draco blurted, before he could contain himself, “What if they’re both working together to get the stone for Voldemort?”

“Don’t say his name!” Ron said.

“What?” gasped Hermione, “No, You-Know-Who is gone, I read about it in _A Modern Magical History-_ ”

“Yeah, Draco. He’s gone. He’s supposed to be-”

“Okay, but think about it this way,” countered Draco, “I know Snape. I mean, he’s not the sort of wizard to want immortality and pure gold. But who is someone who _always_ sought after to conquer the wizarding world? Immortality is just an added bonus for someone like You-Know-Who. And if Snape really knows something, then maybe he’s not really gone.”

“Draco, You-Know-Who is dead.” Harry said, “He died when the curse rebounded off me, after he killed my parents. He can’t come back if he’s dead.”

“What if Snape found a way to bring him back with the Stone?” Hermione whispered, worrying her lip. “Harry, the Philosopher’s Stone provides the owner with the elixir of life...”

“We have to go to the library,” said Draco immediately, “We have to look up how life can be prolonged. Come on, Hermione.”

“Draco, are you sure?” She said. “The Elixir of Life is the only proper way to extend life. There can’t be other ways.”

“No, I have to be sure,” Draco said. “There are other ways, Hermione. Just trust me when I say I know. My father, he studied dark magic. There are other ways that can bring you back.”

“Like necromancy,” was her response.

“Harry, are you okay?” asked Draco, directing the conversation back at him. Harry had a worrisome look on his face, looking down at the floor.

“It was something that Hagrid said, when we first met,” The Boy Who Lived said quietly, “He said, ‘ _Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die.”_ ’

“Hey, maybe he is dead,” Draco said seriously, trying to calm him, “But maybe not. All we know, is that we have to stop Snape and Quirrell, at whatever cost. Whatever they’re doing, it’s not for a good reason.”

Harry still didn’t look convinced.

“Come on, you guys. Let’s go back to the common room. We’ll just have to keep an eye on them, that’s all,” Draco suggested. But truthfully, Draco was worried. Really worried.

Because Draco knew, exactly when the Dark Lord would return. He didn’t know how, only that he does. And Draco wanted to be ready, but this was really unsettling. How many other times had Voldemort tried to come back? How many other times?

Draco really just wished he’d paid more attention to Granger.

 

           

           

 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

The teachers were starting to pile so much homework on them that the Easter holidays weren’t nearly as much fun as the Christmas ones. Even though first-year coursework was _nothing_ compared to O.W.L.s, it was hard to relax when Hermione was always next to Draco, reciting the twelve uses of dragon’s blood or practicing wand movements. Yawning, Draco spent most of his free time in the library with her, throwing himself into much _different_ research.

The scare about Voldemort possibly coming back had shocked Draco into a stupor; if he really was coming, Draco had to be prepared. He knew he had until fourth year at the latest, but because he didn’t remember exactly _how_ he returns, only that Potter had showed up at the end of the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament carrying Cedric Diggory’s body, he had very little to go on.

So Draco started researching in the restricted section, late at night, using Harry’s invisibility cloak. He was usually quiet enough to not wake him when he headed out. But he was starting to quite literally fall asleep in class, and he knew that he wouldn’t last this long. The problem was, unfortunately, that no one in their right mind would let a first-year wander about the Restricted Section in the daylight. He would have to wait until at least third-year to even try going in there in the daytime. So here he was, almost dozing on the table as Hermione, Ron, and Harry worked on their extra homework.

One thing he had been doing recently was going through old Daily Prophets; when Draco had gotten to Hogwarts the first time, he had no idea of anything that had really happened in the First Wizarding War; the only knowledge he had was the stuff he heard from his father. He was looking through the ones from October/November 1981, when Voldemort was defeated, and a lot of the stories reminded him of what had happened before, in the near future. Draco felt he had to completely understand how Voldemort was defeated the first time in order to figure out how Potter did it the second time, and how he came back. _But why did the Dark Lord fall? It hadn’t been just because of Baby Potter’s prowess. And how is he still alive to return?_

Unfortunately, the newspapers didn’t give him much, and Draco felt he had to hide them. It made him slightly guilty, in a way, to be researching his friend’s parent’s murders; what if Harry found out and it put a rift between them? And nobody could help him. He couldn’t trust anyone. Not when Snape was going after the Stone, and Dumbledore...was just Dumbledore. Those twinkly eyes gave him the creeps; it was as if the man knew everything about him. And all the other teachers were so far up Dumby’s ass that it’d be quite foolish to tell any of them. Not that Draco wanted to.

But there was one teacher he wouldn’t mind talking to, about the other problem he was having. The problem of Sirius Black. Why had he been in the Mirror, when Draco had never seen him before? He remembered his aunt had killed him, in the Department of Mysteries when his father got arrested. His aunt's words danced across his eyelids while he slept, and emblazoned upon them were:  _I killed Sirius Black_. Why had she killed him? Why had Sirius Black been fighting on the side of the Order? There was no other conclusion that Draco could think of other than the fact that he’d been innocent. In fact, he wouldn’t mind going to McGonagall to question her about this. He was still working on his argument, but perhaps if she knew, as she was a member of the Order in the future, then Black could be released.

Draco was jolted awake by Ron one afternoon. “I’ll never remember this,” Ron burst out, throwing down his quill and looking longingly out of the library window. It was the first really fine day they’d had in months. The sky was a clear, forget-me-not blue, and there was a feeling in the air of summer coming.

Draco, who quickly settled back down in a sort-of sleepy calm, didn’t look up again until he heard Ron say, “Hagrid! What are you doing in the library?”

Hagrid shuffled into view, hiding something behind his back. He looked very out of place in his moleskin overcoat.

“Jus’ lookin’,” he said, in a shifty voice that got his interest at once. “An’ what’re you lot up ter?” He looked suddenly suspicious. “Yer not still lookin’ fer Nicolas Flamel, are yeh?”

“Oh we found out who he is ages ago,” said Ron impressively. “And we know what that dog’s guarding, it’s a Philosopher’s St-”

“Shhhh!” Hagrid looked around quickly to see if anyone was listening. “Don’ go shoutin’ about it, what’s the matter with yeh?”

“There are a few things we wanted to ask you, as a matter of fact,” said Harry, “about what’s guarding the Stone apart from Fluffy-”

“SHHH!” said Hagrid again. “Listen- come an’ see me later, I’m not promisin’ I’ll tell yeh anythin’, mind, but don’ go rabbitin’ about it in here, students aren’ s’pposed ter know. They’ll think I’ve told yeh-”

“See you later, then,” said Harry.

Hagrid shuffled off. Draco was about to flop back down onto the table top when Hermione said, “What was he hiding behind his back?”

“Do you think it had anything to do with the stone?” Harry said.

“I’m going to see what section he was in,” said Ron, who clearly had enough of working. He came back a minute later with a pile of books in his arms and slammed them down on the table.

“Not the bloody dragons again,” groaned Draco, his mind half a step behind his mouth. This was one thing from first year that he did remember. The three of them were looking at him funny, and Draco quickly realized his misstep.

“Hagrid’s always going on about dragons, about how he’d like to have one,” He started, a little unsteady, “Doesn’t he realize they’re illegal?”

There, saved. “It _is_ against our laws,” said Ron in a whisper. “Dragon breeding was outlawed by the Warlocks’ Convention of 1709, everyone knows that. It’s hard to stop Muggles from noticing us if we’re keeping dragons in the back garden- anyway, you can’t tame dragons, it’s dangerous. You should see the burns Charlie’s got off wild ones in Romania.”

“But aren’t there wild dragons in Britain?” said Harry.

“Of course there are,” said Ron, “Common Welsh Green and Hebridean Blacks. The Ministry of Magic has a job hushing them up, I can tell you. Our kind have to keep putting spells on Muggles who’ve spotted them, to make them forget.”

“You sure know a lot about dragons, Ron,” Draco said impressively, as Ron’s ears went pink.

“So... what on earth is Hagrid up to?” said Hermione.

* * *

 

When they knocked on the door of the gamekeeper’s hut an hour later, they were surprised to see that all the curtains were closed. Hagrid called “Who is it?” before he let them in, and then shut the door quickly behind them.

It was stifling hot inside. Even though it was such a warm day, there was a blazing fire in the grate. Hagrid made them tea and offered them stoat sandwiches, which they refused.

“So—yeh wanted to ask me somethin’?”

“Yes,” said Harry.” There was no point in stalling them. “We were wondering if you could tell us what’s guarding the Philosopher’s Stone apart from Fluffy.”

Hagrid frowned at them all.

“O’ course I can’t,” he said, “Number one, I don’ know meself. Number two, yeh know too much already, so I would’ tell yeh if I could. That Stone’s here fer a good reason. It was almost stolen outta Gringotts- I s’ppose yeh’ve worked that out an’ all? Beats me how yeh even know abou’ Fluffy.”

“Oh come on, Hagrid, you might not want to tell us, but you do know, you know everything that goes on round here,” Draco listened as Hermione spoke in a warm, flattering voice. He could almost gag. “We only wondered who Dumbledore had trusted enough to help him, apart from you.”

Hagrid’s chest swelled at these last words. Ron and Harry were beaming at Hermione, but Draco stayed still. He was more intent on his answer.

“Well, I don’ s’pose it could hurt ter tell yeh that... let’s see... he borrowed Fluffy from me... then some o’ the teachers did enchantments... Professor Sprout- Professor Flitwick- Professor McGonagall-” he ticked them off on his fingers, “Professor Quirrell- an’ Dumbledore himself did somthin’, o’course. Hang on, I’ve forgotten someone. Oh yeah, Professor Snape.”

“Snape?” Harry said.

“Yeah—yer not still on abou’ that, are yeh? Look, Snape helped protect the Stone, he’s not about ter steal it.”

“What about Quirrell?” Draco whispered to Hermione. He knew the other three were thinking the same as he was. If Snape or Quirrell had been in on protecting the Stone, it must have been easy to find out how the other teachers had guarded it. They probably knew everything- except, it seemed, how to get past Fluffy.

“You’re the only one who knows how to get past...Fluffy, aren’t you, Hagrid?” Draco said finally. “And you didn’t tell anyone, did you? Not even one of the other teachers?”

“Not a soul knows except me an’ Dumbledore,” said Hagrid proudly. Draco seriously doubted it. _The size of this oaf’s mouth, I swear, it’s a wonder those two haven’t figured it out yet._

“Well, that’s something, at least,” Harry muttered to him. “Hagrid, can we have a window open? I’m boiling.”

Draco, on the other hand, was perfectly fine. It was nice and warm in here and the armchair was big and comfortable.

“Can’t, Harry, sorry,” said Hagrid. Draco noticed him glance at the fire.

“Hagrid, what’s that?” Harry asked, for he had seen it too.

In the very heart of the fire, underneath the kettle, was a huge, black egg.

“Ah,” said Hagrid, fiddling nervously with his beard, “That’s er...”

“Where did you get it, Hagrid?” said Ron, crouching over the fire to get a closer look at the egg. “It must’ve cost you a fortune.”

“Won it,” said Hagrid. “Las’ night. I was down in the village havin’ a few drinks an’ got into a game o’ cards with a stranger. Think he was quite glad ter get rid of it, ter be honest.”

“But what are you going to do with it when it’s hatched?” said Hermione.

“Well, I’ve been doin’ some readin’,” said Hagrid, pulling a large book from under his pillow. “Got this outta the library- Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit- it’s a bit outta date, o’ course, but it’s all in here. Keep the egg in the fire, ‘cause their mothers breathe on em, see, an’ when it hatches, feed it on a bucket o’ brandy mixed with chicken blood every half hour. An’ see here- how ter recognize diff’rent eggs- what I got there’s a Norwegian Ridgeback. They’re rare, them.”

Draco stopped caring past the point of when Hagrid started opening up the book. The warmth was making him sleepy. Hermione, however, didn’t look very pleased.

“Hagrid, you live in a wooden house,” she pointed out.

But Hagrid wasn’t listening. He was humming merrily as he stoked the fire.

So now the others had something else to worry about: Draco may have gotten involved last time but he certainly was going to try and stay out of Hagrid’s dragon illegalities this time. His other problems, however, were more time-consuming.

“Wonder what it’s like to have a peaceful life,” Ron echoed this sentiment exactly so, as evening after evening they struggled through homework and in Draco’s case, research. None of them had bothered asking about what he was reading about, and he was glad they didn’t ask. Hermione had now started making study schedules for the three others, too. It was driving them nuts.

Then, one breakfast time, Hedwig brought Harry a note from Hagrid. Harry showed Draco the two words written there: _It’s hatching._

Ron wanted to skip Herbology and go straight down to the hut. Draco was always up for skiving off his classes (whatever the reason), but Hermione wouldn’t hear of it.

“Hermione, how many times in our lives are we going to see a dragon hatching?” Ron whined on their way to the greenhouses.

“We’ve got lessons, we’ll get into trouble, and that’s nothing to what Hagrid’s going to be in when someone finds out what he’s doing-”

“Shut up!” Harry whispered, and Draco looked around. _Well, shite._ Nott was only a few feet away- similar to Draco when he had been in his place (by the way, this was really unnerving. Could Nott just stop being the old Draco, like, completely?). He’d stopped dead to listen- how much he heard, Draco didn’t know, but he guessed it was more than enough, just like last time.

Ron and Hermione kept arguing all the way down to Herbology and in the end, Hermione agreed to run down to Hagrid’s with the other three during morning break. When the bell sounded from the castle at the end of their lesson, the four of them dropped their trowels at once and hurried through the grounds to the edge of the forest. Hagrid greeted them, looking flushed and excited. _Great._

“It’s nearly out.” He ushered them inside.

The egg was lying on the table. Just before Draco sat down, he looked out the window, and there was nobody there, but just to be careful, he yanked the shutters shut. He couldn’t risk Nott seeing.

A funny clicking noise was coming from the egg. Draco watched curiously, mostly because it would be the last time he’d ever see a dragon hatch.

All at once there was a scraping noise and the egg split open. The baby dragon flopped onto the table. It wasn’t exactly pretty; Draco thought it looked like a crumpled piece of cloth. Its spiny wings were huge compared to its skinny jet-black body, it had a long snout with wide nostrils, the stubs of horns and bulging, orange eyes.

It sneezed. A couple of sparks flew out of its snout.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Hagrid murmured. He reached out a hand to stroke the dragon’s head. At this point, Draco couldn’t remember much else except the hippogriffs and the fucking blast-ended skrewts, so he didn’t have much to say except grind his teeth.

“Bless him, look, he knows his mummy!” said Hagrid.

“Hagrid,” said Hermione, “how fast do Norwegian Ridgebacks grow, exactly?”

Hagrid didn’t have an answer, for he was more focused on cooing at his dragon. Draco rolled his eyes and pulled them out of the hut.


	21. Chapter 21

Draco looked at the dragon, which in his mind should have been called something cool, but instead, the poor thing got stuck with the moniker of “Norbert.” It had grown three times in length in just a week. Smoke kept furling out of its nostrils. Draco knew that the dragon was only a hindrance to Hagrid, who hadn’t been doing his gamekeeping duties because the dragon was keeping him so busy. There were empty brandy bottles and chicken feathers all over the floor of his hut, which despite Draco’s whining, he’d been finding himself in more and more over the next week, with Harry and Hermione.

To tell the truth, Hagrid’s darkened hut was disgusting and Draco didn’t really want to be there. But Harry and Hermione had dragged him and Ron here to try and reason with him, in a vain effort to get rid of the dragon.

“I’ve decided to call him Norbert,” said Hagrid, looking at the dragon with misty eyes, repeating himself but he probably didn’t know, he looked so distracted. “He really knows me now, watch. Norbert! Norbert! Where’s Mummy?”

“He’s lost his marbles,” Draco muttered to Harry.

“Hagrid,” said Harry loudly, “give it two weeks and Norbert’s going to be as long as your house. Anyone could see him, they could go to Dumbledore any day now.”

Hagrid bit his lip. “I- I know I can’t keep him forever, but I can’t jus’ dump him, I can’t.”

Harry suddenly turned to Draco and Ron. “Charlie,” he said.

“You’re losing it too,” said Ron. “I’m Ron, remember?”

“No- Charlie- your brother, Charlie. In Romania. Studying dragons. We could send Norbert to him. Charlie can take care of him and then put him back in the wild!”

“That’s a great idea,” said Draco, passively, looking at the boys with a feeling of- what was it, pride? He turned to the oaf. “How about it, Hagrid?”

And in the end, Hagrid agreed that they could send an owl to Charlie to ask him.

The following week dragged by. Wednesday night found Draco and Harry sitting alone in the common room, long after everyone else had gone to sleep. The clock on the wall had just chimed midnight when the portrait hole burst open. Ron appeared out of nowhere as he pulled off Harry’s invisibility cloak. He had been down at Hagrid’s hut, helping him feed Norbert, who was now eating dead rats by the crate.

“It bit me!” he said, showing them his hand, which was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief. “I’m not going to be able to hold a quill for a week. I tell you, that dragon’s the most horrible animal I’ve ever met, but the way Hagrid goes on about it, you’d think it was a fluffy little bunny rabbit. When it bit me he told me off for frightening it. And when I left, he was singing it a lullaby.”

“You’d think he could be a little more grateful,” said Draco derisively. “We’re practically risking our lives for the thing. I’m telling you, if Charlie doesn’t respond soon, we should go to McGonagall.”

There was a sudden tap on the dark window.

“It’s Hedwig!” said Harry, hurrying to let her in. “She’ll have Charlie’s answer!”

The three of them put their heads together to read the note.

           

_Dear Ron,_

_How are you? Thanks for the letter- I’d be glad to take the Norwegian Ridgeback, but it won’t be easy getting him here. I think the best thing will be to send him over with some friends of mine who are coming to visit me next week. Trouble is, they mustn’t be seen carrying an illegal dragon._

_Could you get the Ridgeback up the tallest tower at Midnight on Saturday? They can meet you there and take him away while it’s still dark._

_Send me an answer as soon as possible._

_Love, Charlie_

 

They looked at one another.

“We’ve got the invisibility cloak,” said Harry. “It shouldn’t be too difficult- I think the cloak’s big enough to cover two of us and Norbert.”

It was a mark of how bad the last week had been that Draco and Ron agreed with him. Anything to get rid of Norbert.

There was a hitch. By the next morning, Ron’s bitten hand had swollen to twice its usual size. He didn’t know whether it was safe to go to Madam Pomfrey- would she recognize a dragon bite? By the afternoon, though, after Draco’s urging- he had no choice. The cut had turned a nasty shade of green. It looked as if Norbert’s fangs were poisonous.

Draco and Harry had filled Hermione in on the note from Charlie, and they all decided that it would be best if Harry and Hermione used the cloak and got rid of Norbert, and Draco would stand at the bottom of the tower to keep watch.

When they both pressed Draco about why he was so adamant about keeping watch, “because why couldn’t you just come with us? The cloak could fit us three,” Harry had said. Draco’s response had been a lie about the prefect and teacher rounds, and in that a patrol passed the Astronomy Tower every hour, so it was really important that they didn’t get caught out of bed afterhours. Draco remembered getting caught in the other timeline, after trying to tell on Potter and the others, and getting detention. _Father hadn’t been pleased that Christmas..._

“I don’t see why you have to stay at the bottom of the tower, what if you get caught?” Harry whispered to him at breakfast the next day, and Draco leaned closer. Hermione quickly bent her head in as well, her eyes wide as they whispered to each other.

“I won’t get caught,” Draco said reassuringly.

“Then why don’t you stand under the cloak while Hermione and I go to the top of the tower?”

“No, you two need the cloak because we don’t want anyone seeing Norbert in his crate!” _I could just use a disillusionment charm. But I can’t explain how I can do one to either of them._

“I don’t, I- just- _ugh_ -” Draco was saying, running a hand through his hair and trying to suppress his frustration, “I-”

“Just come with us,” Harry pestered, his hand on Draco’s forearm. Draco shook his head vehemently as he got up, the other two following suit.

“Wouldn’t it be more beneficial for Draco to keep watch by McGonagall’s office? She’s the closest to the tower,” Hermione interjected, her thinking face on. She walked carefully with her brow furrowed. They had turned the corner before Harry turned on them and said, “What if she comes out and catches him? He should be with us.”

“ _He_ is right here, you know?” Draco said to Harry, snapping free from his brooding for a moment.

“Yes, we know, we’re just trying to figure out the best thing to do,” Hermione reminded him, “You don’t _have_ to come with us. I’m worried Harry’s cloak won’t fit three of us _and_ Norbert, we don’t even know how big he’ll be by Saturday!”

“Probably very,” Harry sighed, “This is getting complicated. Look, if you don’t want to come to the top of the tower, why don’t you just stay in the common room?”

All of a sudden, Hermione grabbed Draco’s arm with ferocious strength.

“Ow,” Draco remarked, as Hermione gasped.

“Oh, I’m so sorry Draco, I just remembered! The tower. You don’t take Astronomy, do you? Oh, and all this time we’ve been trying to get you to come with us!” She said, her gaze extremely apologetic. She then turned on Harry. “Harry, you were _with_ him when he had that panic attack! You should have remembered that, at least.”

Draco looked down. “Don’t worry about it, Hermione,” he said, his voice wobbly.

“You could have just told us, Dray,” Harry energy disappeared, softening his expression considerably once Draco looked up. “I would have understood.”

“I just don’t-” Draco looked at his friends, blinking as he struggled to find the right words, “I just don’t understand what’s wrong with me, that’s all. I can’t g-go-”

Draco felt very warm and very cold at once. His eyes welled with tears in the panic and he just started to cry. “Damnit.”

Hermione and Harry’s reactions were immediate, drawing him to a bench in the courtyard, their faces worried. They sat there for a long moment, Draco’s hands on his face, as they waited for him to stop gasping. Draco forcibly righted himself. “Sorry,” Draco wiped his eyes, hating himself for sounding so damn _weak_ , “I’ve h-had a bad day.”

_Stupid. You’re almost fucking twenty years old. Malfoys don’t cry, Malfoys don’t cry! You’re not fucking eleven anymore- you’re not really a Malfoy, anymore, come to think of it-_

But the fact that he _was_ supposed to be eleven never left his mind. Speaking caused him to break down all over again. But instead of gasping for breath, he just cried soundlessly. Harry had his arms wrapped around him and Hermione had one of her hands on his back.

“It’s okay, Draco, don’t cry, you don’t have to- you don’t have to go up to the tower,” Hermione said assertively, feeling very responsible for Draco’s breakdown and already planning to make it better. “It’ll all be over on Saturday. Harry and I will do it alone and Norbert will be gone and we won’t get caught by McGonagall because we’ll have the Invisibility Cloak, see?”

“It’s almost time for Charms,” Harry said, “D’you want to come, Draco? You’re so good at it, it’s sort of unfair. Flitwick’s obsessed with you, all the teachers are.”

“We’re supposed to be learning the Knockback Jinx today,” Hermione said bracingly, “I’d be glad to show off if you will. We could earn loads of points for Gryffindor together.”

_Flipendo, oh joy,_ Draco thought dryly. He detached himself from Harry’s hold and nodded, wiping his eyes, stopping to cast a freshening charm on Harry, whose robes were all wrinkled and wet-looking.

“See?” Hermione’s eyes were wide with shock. “If you showed that to Flitwick, he’d give you thirty points! I’ve only read about _Scourgify_ in _Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four._ ”

“Why am I even surprised,” Draco sighed.

“Where’d you learn that, Draco?” Harry said, examining his now-clean robes.

_Shiiiit._ “Erm, pureblood children know a lot of household spells before coming to Hogwarts,” said Draco, pompously, but all of them knew it was a front.

“I haven’t seen Ron use any of those spells,” Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“Only proper purebloods do?” Draco said, his eyes widening as they got closer to the classroom. Hermione shook her head, not believing him.

“If you want him to admit that he’s a genius, he won’t do it, Hermione,” Harry said, laughing. “Are you really trying to get him to tell you he’s smarter than you?”

“He’s-not-smarter-than-I-am- You take that back, Harry Potter!” Hermione said, as Harry broke into a sprint. She took off after him, leaving Draco to walk to class alone. They were almost at the door, though.

Draco didn’t show off at all that lesson, but he caught Hermione’s eye every now and then- she was sitting alone because Ron was still in hospital from the dragon bite- and he vaguely wondered what exactly she thought of him. Granger was always the smartest of the Golden Trio- even now, he wasn’t sure if he was bad at hiding things or she somehow came to the conclusion that he was kind of fucked up on her own.

Draco had been skiving off every Astronomy lesson since that first one when he was ill on the stairs. Since they were every Wednesday night, Draco had taken to spending time in McGonagall’s office instead, colouring in his star charts and having cups of tea. He’d been hiding in the dormitory every night until the half-term in December. But Sinistra must have told McGonagall, his head of house, and so, in an effort to avoid detention, Draco had burst into tears and told her that he couldn’t ever, ever go up there. It was probably the most embarrassing night in his life and that’s why he will mention or think of it again. He didn’t want to dwell on why McGonagall hasn’t asked him more about why he won’t go up to the tower, yet; every Wednesday, it’s always the same. Sometimes they talk about his schoolwork, sometimes Draco stammers out lies about his nightmares; he had to tone them down, he couldn’t just outright tell McGonagall that he was dreaming of Dumbledore’s death, his aunt constantly breathing down his neck (sometimes those got darker than anything that actually happened to him at the Manor), Death Eater raids, his father torturing him, Voldemort torturing him, Bellatrix torturing Hermione, and how could he ever forget the battle? But all of these nightmares had to be realistic enough for eleven-year-old Draco Malfoy’s mind to produce. If they weren’t, Draco wasn’t sure of what McGonagall would even do. He’d lied when she’d asked. “ _It was Mother and father arguing.” “Father yelling.” “Mother screaming.” “Father throwing plates.” “Please don’t tell anyone, Professor? It’s bad enough Ron and Harry have to hear.”_

It was really difficult, so immensely difficult that it was almost easy. It was easy for Draco to lie, he’d been doing it his whole life, after all. He struggled to think about what would happen if Potter or Granger from the other timeline had ended up back here, because they probably would have been found out in a week. _Bloody Gryffindors._ But McGonagall hadn’t called him out on anything, yet.

Especially when Draco had arrived that evening, already anxious, and spilled tea all over his star chart when he tried to tell her that his dream had only been about dementors and cried.

That Wednesday night, he thought about how not even his one secret about Wednesdays was something Hermione and the others didn’t know about. And it wasn’t like he was trying to keep it from them. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t like talking about it. He couldn’t even open up to McGonagall.

Draco had been having a bit of a bad time at it, recently. He was still looking into Harry’s parents’ deaths and Sirius Black and the thirteen muggles or however many it was, and still couldn’t figure out how Peter Pettigrew was definitely at his parents’ dining table in 1996 when he was obviously dead in 1991. Where was he, why was he hiding out, and did Black kill the muggles or did Wormtail? The question was driving him mad. The Dark Lord had referred to Pettigrew as “Wormtail” the majority of times and as “Peter” only a handful, which was Draco’s only proof that they were the same man in the first place. However, in one of the Daily Prophets Draco had nicked from the library, there was a photo honouring Pettigrew with his “posthumous” Order of Merlin, which was almost identical to the sort of fat, watery blue-eyed Death Eater that practically lived in Draco’s house for two years. They were probably the same person. But Draco had no real proof. And he was edging on exhaustion as he finished his star chart, which was a priority for tonight even though his essay for McGonagall’s was late, it had slipped his mind, and his unusual forgetfulness had contributed to his anxiety that day.

“I’m going to start on my essay, now, Professor,” Draco called, from the small desk by the window of McGonagall’s office. His head of house was sitting at her own ornate desk made of handsomely carved mahogany.

McGonagall must have heard him, because she nodded her head as she continued to stare down a second-year Gryffindor boy, sitting on the other side of her desk. She continued to speak to the kid- _McLaggen, maybe, she sounds more like she’s chewing him out-_ as Draco set out more parchment and began to write. _I can do this, I'm_ fine. But as he did, he felt as if he couldn’t focus. He was _exhausted_. He’d had the usual variety last night, causing him to wake at about 01:00, but he’d been able to fall asleep after that, because they were pretty normal, just the Dark Lord and a couple of raids, maybe his father appeared once or twice, etc., but it was after that, where Draco had his first truly terrifying nightmare in a long time. He’d gotten used to being jolted awake from reliving Granger’s screams, or the Astronomy Tower, but this one was from Easter, in Sixth Year.

Draco had a lot of nightmares about random drunken Death Eaters being in his house, too, but they were few and far between and very confusing. One time in the summer before Sixth Year, Macnair and Goyle Sr. had brought back an unknown witch from a pub, and her screams were heard all the way in the West Wing. Draco remembered trying to just sleep and block it out, ignoring the constant noise from the Manor’s many unwelcome inhabitants- but sometimes, _oh Merlin. No... not here..._

His breath catching as the grip on his quill slackened, leaving a very large blot of ink on the word that he’d last written for his Transfiguration essay, Draco squeezed his eyes shut. _Stop, stop, stop, stop..._

Bellatrix would wander into his room at night and, giggling as if she didn’t already have a few screws loose, kiss him goodnight. _She was my aunt, mother was glad to have her sister back-_ Except Draco had known at sixteen years old that Bellatrix didn’t have the slightest bit of maternal instinct. She would be there for almost an hour, Draco just wanted it to end- _it was the Easter holidays, Mother found out and I never saw her alone again, oh no... oh Merlin..._

Out of all of Draco’s memories from the war, that was one he’d like to _obliviate_ himself of. He’d dug deep down to lock it away and he never wanted to think that week again. He hadn’t even dreamed about it, until yesterday, because last night was spent looking at the Prophets that spanned the week of Black’s incarceration, and on one from the 2nd of November 1981, Aunt Bellatrix’s manic, feral grin from behind bars...

He’d been on edge all day.

“Draco, Draco...”

_Stop, stop, stop, stop..._ There were hands on his shoulder.

“Mr. Malfoy...”

_No, no, no, no..._

He was hyperventilating, that much he knew. He was barely conscious, it was getting to the point that he was probably going to pass out. He couldn’t speak and he could barely see. There were black spots all over his vision, nothing was in focus- he was, perhaps the most terrified he’d ever been in his whole life- he felt like he was choking on something- his own breath? _Am I going to die?_ His blood was racing in his ears but he couldn’t feel anything else, he became somewhat numb, free-floating, and he had fallen out of his chair some, his knees had hit the stone floor but he was pinned against it somehow- _he had to get away, he had to get away-_ but he couldn’t, he felt frozen in place, someone was trying- _someone is trying to kill me_ -

“Draco! ...McLaggen...hospital...”

He couldn’t make out many words. Everything felt weird, he might have thrown up but he didn’t remember, because _he couldn’t get air into his lungs_ and he had to _leave_ but he was pinned to the chair, he tried to get up and _get away_ from the hand on his shoulder forcing him in place, _stop, stop, stop, stop..._

And it did.

 


End file.
